A Sort of Homecoming
by Hagan99
Summary: Lady Jaye is forced to confront the past she thought she left behind when she joined the G.I. Joe team. Can she overcome her demons or will this be the end of the life she's come to love. Follows LJ back to her Trinity College days and their impact on the present.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A new year and a new story. This one's a little different and trying out a new style. It follows my two previous stories and some background from them may only be glossed over here. Even if you haven't read those (although I know you most definitely want to!) I don't think there will be any confusion. The usual disclaimers apply- the only characters I can claim are the ones not owned by Marvel/IDW/Hasbro (leaving anyone out?). I make no money off of this nor should I. Although, if IDW wanted to hire me, I wouldn't say no. ****A big beginning thanks to Mossley and Bugsymutt for putting up with all my foibles, in general, and insecurities in writing this one. Please enjoy. As always, reviews - the good and the critical - are welcome and appreciated. **

**A Sort of Homecoming**

**Chapter One: I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue**

They say losing your cover is the worst thing that can happen when you're out in the field. I never believed them. I could think of so many other things that would be worse. Death, for one, would probably be at the top of the list. No use in worrying about your cover if you're not actually around to do the worrying. Losing a teammate may even top that. Although one's desire for self-preservation is strong, in certain circumstances I think I'd rather be the one to fall.

They try to drill it into you in training that you can never lose your cover. Run if you have to – there's no shame in running. Yes, you generally want to avoid just giving up, but sometimes, they say, you have to. We were told to ignore that instinctive need to complete the mission. If it was going south, it was important to recognize that and act accordingly. Don't let your pride get in the way. Any operation is bigger than your pride. Whatever the operation requires, that's what you need to be prepared to do. Sometimes that means running.

I was never good at making that call. It's not like there's any shame in making the tactical decision that immediate extraction best serves the parameters of the mission. But just saying that makes my ears hurt. How could you ever face your peers at a post-briefing with that excuse?

Besides, I always had the confidence that I could pull it out. Even when a whole mission was literally blowing up around me, I didn't let it faze me. I was in control. That was probably a big part of my refusal to buy into the company line. Giving up meant losing that control. For so long I was at the mercy of everyone else. My path was always dictated by someone else. Even still, on a day-to-day basis, I'm not in charge. I'm ok with that because I know when I am – when it counts. Out in the field, I own it. I love that surge of adrenalin when everyone has bought into the line _I'm_ selling. It's empowering. In that moment of power, you could never think to do anything but.

There were many times, however, when I should have gotten off that power trip and listened to the nagging feeling in my gut. Iowa comes to mind. I definitely was not in control in Iowa. It was a tense situation with little intelligence to give us any solid guidance. Still, we allowed ourselves to get pushed into it. Innocent people almost died that day, including me. Yet, in the thick of it, I truly believed I could sell it. Passing that note before I took full stock of the surroundings was a foolish move. Rather than press forward, I should have taken a step back. I didn't.

Main reason? My pride. Pride goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall. Once I was in, I couldn't fathom any scenario other than the one where I was a nice cosmetics lady able to smoke out the bad guys. How did that work out for me?

Some of it is the very nature of my work. It goes to the heart of being an undercover agent. For months, if not years, you've prepared your part. That's all you're doing, playing a part. It's no different than the theatre. You have an audience to whom you need to sell your role. You have a stage and setting. There are other players, even if they don't know it. Then you have you, the headliner. Your lines are drilled into your head until nothing is left to chance. Nothing.

Even getting to that debut will take more away from you than you're ever willing to admit. You may do simple things, like alter your appearance. It's easy to switch your hair color or add glasses. Usually though, the types of things you do cut deeper than that. You will train yourself to say things you find distasteful. You learn to automatically disavow your basic beliefs. You learn to sit passive, disguising your disgust, as terrible things take place. You do it, struggling against your nature, with the end result in mind. You are prepared to commune with monsters so that no one else ever has to again. Until the next time.

The better your performance, the more you will be called upon to do it again. It builds your confidence, enables your pride. You will find ways to be better, to do it better than before. You become the next character, intimately, to the exclusion of all else. You will know how to respond to anything that gets lobbed your way. It becomes second nature. If you are truly good, and I am, you will lose a part of yourself to the role. You can't be who you were. Anything that made you unique has to go. The risk is simply too great that something as ordinary as your appreciation for an intense pitcher's duel will seep into a person who supposedly has never left the confines of her remote village. That's a rookie mistake. So you learn to compartmentalize yourself. Always the fear is that you won't be able to get yourself back. In my case, I always fear that I may not want to get myself back.

I think that's where I parted ways with the conventional thinking. The conventional thinking espoused at training is that you will preserve yourself at all costs. When you are undercover, you will preserve yourself as your cover at all costs. There's no distinguishing between the two. So to lose your cover is to risk you. Pride be damned. Better to cut lose in that scenario. But what if all you are is just a cover? What if you are so many covers deep that you wouldn't know what to preserve? What if all the covers mean nothing to you and all you have left is your pride?

In the last act of the Crucible, Elizabeth Proctor pleads with her husband John to confess to witchcraft so that he may live and they can be as a family again. And at first he does – verbally – confess to having practiced witchcraft. To the court, this isn't enough. It must have a signed confession. This Proctor cannot do. He rips the written confession to pieces and shouts out that it is his name, it is all he has. "I have given you my soul; leave me my name." I have no name to save. All I have is my pride; I've nothing else. I'm so far afield from the shy, timid girl I started life as that I couldn't tell you who I am now. There are those who refer to me as Lady Jaye, covert operative for the G.I. Joe team. Some know me as Alison Hart-Burnett, the slightly recluse daughter of the late Elizabeth and James, heir to the controlling share of the Hart corporate empire. Still others knew me as someone else entirely. I've given up my name; leave me my pride.

It was a false thought, pride. I thought I was safe. Each part of me was carefully practiced and put through the paces. I could play the different me's in my sleep. All the world was truly my stage. I didn't have to fear not getting myself back. It was never a possibility. There was nothing to which I could return.

Or so I thought. You are never as good as you think. I wasn't that good. There is a person that is me and I have a name. I've hidden it though, even from the one person I was supposed to have let in. It's haunted me ever since. And now, I will have to let him know who I am. I can hear his footsteps scrunching across the wet grass. Soon he'll want to know. He deserves as much.

Looking back at everything that's happened, I realize now that they were right. Losing your cover is the worst thing that can happen. Not in the way they meant. They had the bottom line in mind. To them, it was all part of some cost-saving operational measure. When you're in training, they don't always have the most altruistic motives for the advice they dole out. You kind of have to look out for yourself. To them, you are an investment. If they invest a hefty chunk of time and resources into creating an identity for you, they want to maximize their return. You can become a useless commodity pretty fast in this line of work. But if you run, if you preserve your cover, there's a chance that they can salvage some of that. They can reinsert you later when things have cleared. If you get caught, they can't go back, not if they're being honest with themselves.

That's not why I believe them now. I believe them because losing your cover is the worst thing when it hides the only thing you have left. My cover hid me. So it begs the question, if I believed, why didn't I run? I don't know. It's rare for people to be asked the question which puts them squarely in front of themselves. I guess I thought I could pull it out, perpetuate the lie. My foolish pride. And now I know better. Losing my cover means that everything I've done is stripped away. I wish I could run, but there's no place to go. What happens now I dread. But he's here and he should know the truth. While I fear it won't be, I can only hold out hope that it will be enough. If it isn't, at least the worst part will be over. My cover's blown.


	2. It's Too Late Baby

**Chapter Two: It's Too Late Baby**

It started two weeks ago . . .

"_And it's too late, baby, now it's too late. Though we really did try to make it. Something . ._ ."

"Will you stop with the singing already!"

"You just don't appreciate good music."

"I appreciate good music just fine. It's your howlin' that's gonna raise the dead."

"_SOMETHING INSIDE ME HAS DIED AND I . . ._"

"Oh for Pete's sake, will both of you!" I yanked the transmitter out of my ear, shaking my head to get rid of the echo left behind by all the shouting. But I wasn't alone. I looked up into Tomax's eyes. I could feel his amusement at my predicament. He held out his hand, not even having to ask. I handed over the transmitter.

Tomax raised the device to his lips. "Gentlemen, this conversation is strictly off the record. I assure you that no harm shall befall Lady Jaye and she'll let you know when we are done." Tomax paused and winked at me. "I would strongly advise you, however, to remain where you are. Although I will not harm her, I cannot say the same for you." Tomax squeezed the device between his fingers, searching for an off switch. He'd be searching for a while. This was a J.T. special. I assume he came to that conclusion when he dropped the transmitter to the floor, smashing it under his perfectly polished loafer with a shrug.

Chuckles and Beach Head, the voices still echoing in my head, were not going to take too kindly to this turn of events. Scratch that. Beach Head was not going to take too kindly. I was counting on Chuckles to understand and keep the ranger at bay. A rampant Beach Head would end this adventure before it even began. What that adventure was, I couldn't say. Sure, on the surface it was easy to explain. Meeting the enemy and standing in harm's way for the greater good. But underneath, it was the things below the surface where the true purpose lay. And that was the thing I didn't know. Why was I there? Was it for the team? Or was I there for me? I think I was there for me.

No, not think, know. I know I was there for me.

Because I was there for me, it was my show. Tomax sensed as much. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for me to go first. Although he was the one who initiated the contact, I answered. It was the answering that was the bigger deal. I closed my eyes, regrouping my thoughts, losing the cover and getting into the here and now.

The here and now was the lair of the beast (how melodramatic of me), Extensive Enterprises' Midtown Manhattan headquarters. A few weeks prior, I had received an e-mail from Tomax. He didn't hide his name or his intent. The e-mail with his name as the sender and "Meeting?" as the subject line was difficult to ignore. I replied, receiving nothing in return. All I had was his initial one-word missive. Not a lot upon which to build a mission. My curiosity was piqued. I tried to put myself in his head. I'd been there once before, fluttering around the edges. What could he want? What could he gain was the better question. I stayed up all night running scenarios with paper and pen. Sometimes the best way to clear your thoughts is to write it out the old-fashioned way. After plowing my way through a ream of paper, I wasn't any closer to a solution. He used my military address, which would seem to point to something he would have in common with the Joes. Trouble is, if that was his aim, there were better ways to arrange something. And reaching out to me directly seemed to point to wanting to see me, the civilian me. If that was the case, however, then there were a heck of a lot better ways to do that and not raise any red flags with the Joes. Tomax was familiar with the Hart-version of me. He could contact me that way. He didn't.

That left me back to the starting question, what did Tomax want? Why bring the Joes into it? I suspected he wanted to toy with us a bit – to cast some shadows and plant the seeds of discontent. Flint wasn't happy about it and maybe that was the answer. Tomax never hid his dislike of Flint. This was bigger than Flint. I could feel it. But missions were never sold on feelings. Hard cold data and solid facts, that's what drove missions. It took me another night to come up with those. When it came time to present, I made my best case and buried my doubts.

Apparently I needed another night. From the moment I pulled up the first chart, I lost Duke. He just stared as the data scrolled across his screen, face unresponsive. I reached my conclusion and went through the pros of arranging a clandestine meeting. Duke leaned back in his chair, chewing absently on the end of a pencil. I finished my presentation and he had no questions, merely nodding for me to take my seat while moving to the next item on the agenda. I was crushed. I would never know what Tomax wanted without doing it on my own. To do it on my own would risk far too much. My curiosity wasn't enough to risk a reprimand, or worse. Now was the time to stay off the radar and keep a clean record.

I stewed the rest of the meeting, going over my words. There was nothing to give me away, nothing that revealed my doubts. I played my part well. Maybe too well. I should have been more human, less confident. Duke probably saw right through my act. There was no getting around it. Duke didn't trust Tomax and I wasn't the person to dissuade him from that opinion. To Duke, Tomax was the enemy. Commander of the Crimson Guard and founder of the Fred Series, Tomax was a key mastermind behind Cobra's attempt at world domination and the puppeteer of Cobra's corporate machinations. Tomax dealt in subterfuge. Looking at Tomax's body of work, there was nothing redeeming in Duke's eyes. Tomax was in for whatever Tomax could get. Duke probably thought the same of me. I wasn't changing Duke's mind.

Duke didn't see what I did. And before I go on, I know people don't change overnight. Tomax can't suddenly go from evil nemeses to white knight. Yet who's to say he was ever really the evil nemeses, that there aren't shades to his personality? There is pushback – and rightly so – to the idea of the noble enemy, truly good at heart. I didn't see Tomax that way. I did see him in a way more nuanced than that. I had direct experience with the man Tomax could be. He didn't choose it, but he couldn't deny it was there. Tomax was more than the sum of his actions.

I knew it because I felt it for a time. A few years ago, a lifetime it seems, we partnered with Tomax. That mission worked because of the brief time that Tomax had let me in to see him as he was. We connected in a way I still don't understand. If Duke was in charge, instead of Flint, I'm not sure it would have worked. Duke wouldn't have made the same decisions as Flint. Flint let go of his mistrust for Tomax because I did. That wasn't Duke. He views things through the lens of good and bad, black and white. He pretends to be such a boy scout. He acts as if he doesn't understand. What a joke.

It's a joke because I know what Duke's done with his own life. Being a glorified secretary to General Hawk has some advantages. Sure I get ribbed by the boys, and I swear I will slug the next man who puts in a coffee order. I take the good with the bad. I'll take a few hound calls for the access Hawk grants me. Hawk doesn't censor the files as many other generals would. I have the clearance and Hawk trusts me to keep everything in line without opening my mouth. As a result, I know things. And I know about Duke and his Black Ops. I know how he's desperate to get Flint involved. Flint hasn't said yes, but he hasn't said no. At least I'm prepared either way. I want to ask, but I can't. Hawk has placed more trust and faith in me than I deserve. I would never jeopardize it. I could never earn it back, even if it means this waltz around the closed door meetings between Duke and Flint. It means yet another part to play. I digress.

Sometime after the meeting, Flint found an excuse to stop by Hawk's office as I was filing. He heard a preliminary assessment from Duke. It wasn't positive. Looking at the bottom line, Duke saw the bottom line to my proposal as a bad public relations disaster on an epic scale if something went wrong. The Joes actively seeking to engage with a Crimson Guard Commander? Scandalous! Thankfully, I had Flint on my side. Flint understood. Flint defended me when Duke questioned my motives behind closed doors. Knocking on my door later that night, Flint sported a fresh bruise on his right cheek. The next morning at briefing, Duke wore a similar mark on both cheeks. Flint wouldn't tell me what Duke had said that set him off. All he would say was that Duke approved the mission, but it would be on Flint's terms. I couldn't ask for more than that.

Flint's terms were not as draconian as one would expect. He only wanted to be in charge, except he couldn't. Flint was knee-deep in his responsibilities on base and couldn't afford to leave. No one was going to put me in charge by proxy. You call one audible and suddenly your competency to make judgment calls that "impact the team mission parameters" gets called into question. Never mind the fact that your fast-thinking audible retrieved way more useful information than the by-the-book mission would have provided. But I told Flint I wouldn't dwell, and I'm not. Not really. Flint, therefore, picked his own proxy, the one person he knew could keep me in line, Beach Head. Beach Head is about as by the book as you can get without having the actual book with you. He's a soldier's soldier and not down for the games of cloak and dagger. Unfortunately for him, he's exactly the person you want around when cloak and dagger is to be had. If all hell breaks loose, Beach Head will be there. I've come to appreciate him over the years. I just wish the feeling was mutual. Every once in awhile he offers me glimpses of the human he hides inside, but that human doesn't jibe with his role as keeper of the flame of tradition. I guess we all have our parts to play.

Next up for Flint's team – really my team, but who's counting – was Chuckles. Chuckles is a covert operative with the humor of a late night talk show host. He also sports the loudest Hawaiian shirts known to mankind. He says people constantly underrate him because of his choice of attire. I'm always fighting against being underrated and it's always his aim. Unlike my relationship with Beach Head, we get along fine. In analyzing the past mission, Flint believed a critical error was sending me in alone. Flint wasn't making that mistake again. Although Chuckles wasn't exactly the guy you called on to keep others in line, he was experienced and could get in anywhere. I mean anywhere. Flint meant for Chuckles to keep close.

To round out the team, Flint went for some outside help. The Joes are the best of the best, but when it came to keeping tabs on me, there was one man Flint trusted beyond all others, an FBI Special Agent named J.T. Hill. J.T. was a big Texan with a loveable heart and an incredibly powerful hug. He was probably the best surveillance operator alive. It was scary thinking about the things J.T. could listen in on. There was also another advantage to picking J.T.; Flint knew I couldn't act against him. I did it once and promised J.T. I would never do it again. We had an understanding, J.T. and I, partners all the way. Flint was aware of this arrangement and it was exactly why he went with the special agent when he could.

With the proper team in place, Flint gave his blessings and I once again found myself trying to swipe a poor excuse of an ID through an unforgiving turnstile. Thankfully the security desk attendant was preoccupied with the baseball game on his monitor. I puckered up and the magic of Wet and Wild Cherry Firebomb lip lacquer eased me in through. With a tug on my ever-receding hemline, my high-heeled ankle boots noisily clacked across the marble floor to the elevator bank. I hit the up button, trying to feel normal walking around dressed as a Kit Kat Club dancer. For my cover, we dipped into the well and back went my picture into the database of the Maid Brigade, an upscale cleaning service employed by the twins for their private offices. Maid Brigade's focus wasn't really on how well its employees could clean an office but rather on how well its employees could just clean up. Lots of make-up and the ability to tolerate skintight spandex riding up into all sorts of uncomfortable places was what it took to be a member of the Maid Brigade. As of 4:46 pm, Cheryl Tiegs once again had what it took.

I glanced over to my left as I was joined by a man dressed in khakis and a denim shirt with a "Wilson Electrical Engineering" patch on his left breast pocket. The man had short dark brown hair and sunglasses, even though the sun was beginning its descent to the west. I tried not to stare in envy as I pulled at the shirt barely covering my midriff. The man tipped his glasses in my direction, giving the up button another jab while humming, "_I wear my sunglasses at night_," over and over again.

"_While she's deceiving me, she cuts my . . ._" suddenly piped up in my left ear. I wouldn't have pegged J.T as a Corey Hart fan.

And then, even louder, "Will y'all cut the chatter! This isn't American Idol auditions!" I reached up and rubbed at my ear, trying to glare daggers at Chuckles. The polished silver elevator doors slid open. Showtime.

Chuckles got off two floors below me, hitching up his pants as he strolled off. _Ha Ha funny man_. He was the lucky one. He got to go in as a contractor "working" on that suite's electrical systems. Easier to try and tap into Extensive Enterprises' servers if it became necessary. As for Beach Head, I had no idea where that man was. He could be right above my head hanging out in the elevator shaft for all I knew. The whole point of the exercise was that I wasn't supposed to know where he was. Even with all the bases covered, Flint still had his doubts that I might try and get resourceful and call an Omaha. Even if I managed to elude Chuckles, the ranger would be one step ahead of me. Or so Flint thought.

In this case, Flint should have put more thought into his selection of Chuckles. Chuckles and I've worked on many missions together. Orthodox and we don't always go hand-in-hand. With a simple request, Chuckles became part of my Omaha. He understood the need to escape from underneath the vice grip of J.T.'s receivers and Beach Head's protocol. Chuckles didn't question my hunch that Tomax would only speak with me, no outside ears allowed. All we needed then was a little diversion to get Beach Head and J.T. off my back. The first takedown was easy. Chuckles was the agitator and Beach Head the agitated. One can only take so much Carole King before losing it. Beach Head lost it and that was my cue to pull the transmitter out of my ear in a reflexive moment. Or at least that's how I would explain it in debriefing. The next part – ditching J.T. – relied solely on Tomax. Fingers crossed, I hoped he wouldn't let me down.

I opened my eyes, centering myself, ready for the here and now. I scowled at Tomax, willing him to pick up on my intent. He didn't disappoint.

"Where's the other one?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh come off it. Like they're really going to send you in with that obvious piece of junk."

I lifted my right foot and pointed down toward my heel. _Come on Tomax understand._ "Piece of junk? Don't think you're going to feel that way after Uncle Sam sends you the bill."

"Send it to my lawyer."

I raised my eyebrows. "You are your lawyer."

"Technicality. I'm sure I would have a few things to say to the government about the office window I had to replace. That was not inexpensive. Not to mention the fact that you charged in here without consent, viciously attacked me, and then shot me. Just because we didn't press charges, doesn't mean that we won't." As he spoke, he motioned me over to the seats in front of his desk. I tried my best to sit down ever so nonchalantly, but who was I kidding. I tugged and pulled at the rectangle of fabric wrapped tightly around my hips, trying to position it so I didn't give Tomax a show. This thing was supposed to be a skirt? And one you could clean in no less? Right. I managed to perch on the edge of the seat, my knees clenched tight, and my hands gripping the edge. It wasn't easy. One false move and everything would be on display.

Tomax shook his head, a smile plastering his face, as he walked around his desk. I couldn't help it; I stuck my tongue out at him. Talk about kick a girl when she's down. He rolled his eyes. I could hear him mocking me in my head. He leaned down and I couldn't see him anymore. Flashbacks of barreling guns and broken windows crossed my mind. Thankfully he wasn't going there, at least not yet. He stood back up, a shiny black box cupped in the palm of his hand.

He seemed pleased; I had no clue. I shrugged, merely a participant in his plans.

Coming around the desk, Tomax placed the black box at my feet. I reached down and he swatted my hand away "Don't touch. It's a little something R&D cooked up to scramble signals." He glanced down toward my feet. "J.T.?"

I nodded.

"Knowing J.T., he'll have a multichannel receiver to cycle through the channels and prevent me from blocking any one signal. With this I can scramble his entire reception. He'll pick up bits and pieces – mostly static and garble – without ever knowing that I've been blocking him. He'll think it's the equipment or maybe something in the building's structure interfering with his relay. He'll be stuck on this one for a long time."

"You're not very nice."

"I'm not trying to be." He pointed at my boots. "Any way you can take those off and leave them here? I think it would be much nicer to sit over there." I followed his gaze toward a darkened corner of his office. He'd done some rearranging since last time I was there. I hadn't noticed it when I first walked in, probably because I was too busy tugging at this infernal skirt. Previously, when you walked into his office, you were met by a wall of books. Tomax took great pride in his library. He'd moved the shelves of books over to a quiet corner, creating a bit of a library-feel to the space. One side opened up into his office, two sides were bookshelves, and the third side was the New York skyline. A couch faced the glass wall, a leather ottoman in front, perfect for drinks with clients, wooing women, or a moment's solitude. I wasn't sure where I fit into the equation. I chuckled inside. Maybe this was it. Perhaps I was about to be wooed. I suppose that would be one way for Tomax to get at Flint.

I slipped off the ankle boots, flexing toes grateful to be free from the constricting leather and towering heel height. I was then presented with my next problem – getting up. I didn't want to admit to being stuck, but that's exactly what I was. I tried to shimmy my bottom away from the seat's edge, but in leaning over to take off my shoes, my skirt had in fact skirted into the danger zone. No matter which way I moved, I'd be giving Tomax quite the view. You see, when I go undercover, I go all the way. You can't pretend to be Cheryl Tiegs, god's gift to cleaning, while sporting Spanx. Less is more; or rather in this case, less is a lot less. I truly hated Maid Brigade and gave up. "I'm stuck."

Tomax smirked. "You're choosing now to be modest? Wearing that?"

"Hey!" I snapped back. "It's not like I had a choice. You honestly expect someone to work in this thing?" It was hard to be holier than thou looking up into his laughing eyes while trying to cover up my private bits.

"You could have made an appointment." Tomax closed the distance between us.

I tried tugging down on the skirt, but it was made for a young wisp of a thing, all straight edges. I had a few more curves with which to contend. "Like that was a realistic option."

"It was nevertheless an option."

I rolled my eyes; there was no use in getting into this pseudo-argument with him. I attempted to salvage some dignity and popped up for a moment, pulling down at the skirt. Each and every action, however, has an equal and opposite reaction. In pulling down at the skirt, the oversized neck hole of my shirt fell off my shoulder and got caught up with my elbow. I tried to maneuver it and only succeeded in having it drape open, exposing my bra up front while still having the problem of the incredibly shrinking skirt. This was becoming the most unsexy strip tease ever. I exhaled a sharp breath of air. Maybe this was the epic failure foreseen by Duke. Joe agent gets naked in front of Crimson Guardsman, story at 11. I tried to ignore Tomax's presence. This wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't here. Even with him being here, I should just do what I needed to do, right?

Pride. It made a resurgence at exactly the wrong time. When you find your clothes slowly disintegrating before the enemy, pride will surely do the rest. Feeling Tomax's pity as his head tilted to take in my condition just magnified the situation. Biting my lip, I couldn't look at him. I didn't want his pity. I didn't want to have to put on this show just to speak with him. I know we were supposed to be enemies. Tomax didn't feel like it to me. Unfortunately I seemed to be the only one to feel that way and I couldn't sell a mission on my feelings. That would be too girl-like. Men planned, women felt. I needed less feeling, less hoping, and more attitude. Pride be damned. I had to own this crappy disguise. I lifted my chin and summoned up what I thought to be a most defiant look. Tomax raised an eyebrow. Damn. I truly was pitiful.

Tomax must have picked up on my thoughts. His eyes softened as he knelt down in front of me. He kept his gaze front and center, never looking down. I know because my eyes were locked with his. "Here." He slid off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders in one crisp movement. It became a barrier between us, protecting my body. Dignity restored. He leaned his head forward, lips slightly brushing my forehead. His breath burned hot against my skin. A gasp caught in my throat. Something was set off inside me, this closeness to him. I closed my eyes, praying to keep my body, this temple of betrayal, in check. It wasn't like that between us. I didn't think of him in that way. Sure he was an attractive man. At least I thought he was attractive; Courtney thought I was nuts. She, however, didn't have the experience of dangling 56 stories above the ground, supported only by his chiseled arms. She wasn't a part of his thoughts. Despite the horrors he committed on the outside, there were some beautiful things contained in his mind. My whole body was on edge, waiting for him to make his next move even though the moves should have been mine.

He said nothing, poised there in suspended animation, our bodies barely making contact. It wasn't the melding of bodies in a passionate and romantic embrace. It was two troubled souls drifting toward their equal, seeking solace in the comfort of one who understood innately without words. I had my answer at that moment. While it was the Joes with whom he wanted to speak, it was me he needed to speak to. He lifted his head slightly, pulling his blazer tightly around my body. He whispered, "I can't concentrate with you in that." That cut through the weight.

A small laugh escaped my throat. I grabbed his arms before they could slip away, holding them tight for a moment, grateful. His blazer was cut long and straight. It hid all the things I wanted to hide. We could both concentrate.

He pulled away, allowing me some privacy to tug and pull fabric into place underneath the blazer. I buttoned it up for good measure. I followed him across his office to the couch, running my fingers across the silken fabric, accepting Tomax's invitation to sit. I sunk down, cradled by the soft cushions, pulling my legs up underneath me. Tomax had paused before the window. The sun was starting to set and the soft purple glow of dusk illuminated his body, erasing the hard edges. He turned his head back to look at me. "How long before I have to start to worry?"

"An hour, maybe two tops. After that even Chuckles will start to get nervous."

"I can send someone down to speak with him."

I cocked my head to the side.

"Lady Jaye, dear, sweet Lady Jaye. Never underestimate me."

"Still gets you only two hours."

"Fine. Reach into the right pocket of my blazer."

I obeyed, my fingers brushing against a hard plastic cylinder.

"Let's get our business out of the way shall we? That drive contains a list of the remaining Cobra warehouses. I imagine most of them are empty by now, but the FBI still may find something of interest that will assist in its search."

"How many?" I sat up a little straighter. Years ago when I had worked with Tomax, it was to stop Cobra from developing and employing a terrible biological agent. Cobra Commander had allowed Dr. Mindbender to experiment on hundreds of Cobra's foot soldiers, the majority who lost their lives in Mindbender's quest to perfect his concoction. I thought of the mutated and decomposed bodies stacked on pallets as if they were no more than empty containers to be discarded. I probably would have died during that mission if it hadn't been for Tomax. To complete the mission, I had to be captured. In being captured, the Commander had injected me with the agent. In a strange turn of events, Destro had provided me with the cure. It was enough for myself and a woman named Michelle Parke. Michelle was a woman Tomax loved. Cobra Commander had discovered Tomax's secret and sought revenge on Tomax, using Michelle as his bait. But there wasn't enough serum to save us both. I made the choice to save her hoping I could hold on. I couldn't. Instead, Tomax saved me.

The FBI was also involved in that mission – thus my previous work with J.T. – and had instigated a nation-wide search for the remaining warehouses used by Cobra to stockpile the biological agent. It took years but we believed it had found them all. There were more warehouses than we could comprehend – almost one in every state. I think Delaware and Rhode Island were the only states spared. Never sure if I was one of those states how I would take that. Relieved? Disappointed? Snubbed like Susan Lucci at the daytime Emmys? Regardless of the two states left out, the fact that there was a depot in every other state meant that Cobra Commander was planning to go big and hit the United States with one massive strike. Fortunately Tomax and Destro were repulsed by his method and came to our aid. Otherwise, I didn't even want to think of what could have happened, how many lives could have been lost. I thought it was over.

"Only about 11. Not enough to do what he wanted before, just enough to make a point."

A cold chill worked its way down my spine.

"Relax, it won't happen. We won't let it. Cobra's in shambles anyway." Tomax turned back to the window, his body starting to distinguish itself from the darkness, the hard edges returning. "So, two hours then?"

"Two hours." I settled back down, wrapping my arms around my chest, contemplating my next move. Two hours. What could happen in two hours? A lot, nothing, it all depended on one's frame of mind. But this thinking was only going to drive me insane.

I turned my attention to the outside world. It was hard not to. The view from Tomax's office was breathtaking. Far below where we couldn't see, the chaos of the street merged into an unintelligible din, muffled by the glass. Instead, we were treated to the twinkling lights of the dusk and the endless possibilities of what could be in this great expanse of sky. Up here, New York could be anywhere.

I don't mind New York. It doesn't bother me the way it might others. I'm rather fond of the city. Not for the typical reasons. Tourists come to New York every year to marvel in its hustle and bustle, in its "if you can make it here" attitude. It is true; the glittery excitement catches me at first. I'm not immune. I step out onto the street and every hair on my body tingles in anticipation of what's to come. That isn't why I like New York though. I like New York because I can be anyone. I can be alone.

In New York, everyone is in their own world. They don't care who I am. I don't have to be anyone in particular. No masks, no disguises. I can walk down the street and blend in perfectly with the crowd. It's a skill I've perfected over the years. I suppose in a way that is acting, fitting in. I just like that I can be lost and no one is looking to find me. In fitting in, I don't have to be anyone in particular. I think I might be more me in New York because I can.

My father hated New York with a passion. And it wasn't a Boston Red Sox hates New York Yankees thing, although there was some of that growing up. He hated it for the very reason I love it, the anonymity. It was too impersonal and isolating. My father hated being bumped and jostled on the sidewalk, each head bowed down to the pavement. My father found New York to be dirty and grimy, hot and sticky. New York made you demand something that it couldn't deliver. To him, New York was a lie.

He endured the city's slights for my mother. She loved New York for all the usual reasons – the hustle and lights, the Broadway shows, fashion week – the city that never sleeps. She took it all in while my father locked himself away in my family's place on the Upper East Side. It's a reserved brownstone flanked on either side by more ornate Victorians. I don't stay there when I'm in town, preferring to rent it out. It isn't the specter of my family. I've never been afraid of ghosts. I don't avoid places because their presence lingers. I want their presence all around me. I was denied it far too young. The one place I feel at home is the Vineyard because it's alive and full of their memories. I see them there always. My father was never comfortable in New York and he isn't there. I can't see him. I can't feel him. It's his house but he isn't there. That's the only lie New York has given me.

"Drink?" I didn't notice that Tomax had drifted over toward me, two glasses in his hand.

"I'm on duty."

"Please. If we only have two hours, we're going to enjoy them." He thrust the glass into my hand, taking up a seat next to me. Tomax held the glass up, the light from outside illuminating the amber within. "Scotch, the real deal. A gift from James. 65-year single malt from his private distillery."

"James-James?"

"Most people would be more impressed with the 65-year single malt part."

"I'm not most people." Swirling the liquid around, I perched my nose just outside the glass, taking a hesitant sniff. Not too much or I'd burn my nose. I learned from the first time I participated in a scotch tasting session with Flint. I was by no means a whisky connoisseur. My father never had the opportunity to teach me the finer points to drinking and lord knew Grandmother Hart wasn't going to start. Most unbecoming to a lady she would say. To be truthful, I never gave it a thought until Flint offered. He's developed an intellectual passion for the drink. When at Oxford, he made friends with a highland distiller's son. Flint, ever driven in all he does, spent as much time studying scotch as he did his World War I poets. And Flint, being Flint, has to share – some would say boast – that knowledge. He tried to start up a whisky appreciation club. He had it all planned out. Once a month Flint would turn the junk room into the model of a small social club, complete with tables, chairs, and books, so many books. I think he had Oxford in the back of his mind. It failed after his first attempt. He should have known better than to expect that the Joes would be content with merely tasting the scotch he had shipped in. There would be no sniffing, no swirling, no descriptions comparing a swallow to the hounds of the Baskervilles. There were only fast shots, tilted heads, and gulping, so much gulping. Some coughing. One bottle was rather "peaty." Note cards provided to describe the taste were converted to poker scorecards as Ace produced several decks of cards. Flint, amazingly, took it in stride. I remain his sole pupil.

I'm still an amateur. I know enough to know a good one from a bad one, not much more than that. The drink I was holding in my hand was most definitely a good one, especially if it came from Destro's personal stock. As I inhaled, I tried to discern the delicate notes from the aroma. There was vanilla and spices and a sharp sting of alcohol. I sniffed again. Sweet memories came to the forefront of a cold winter's evening sitting before a fire, nervous to take my first sip. Inside this glass were memories. I tipped the glass in Tomax's direction. "Slainte."

"Slainte." He clinked his glass against mine. Then we both sipped. The scotch filled my mouth with the intense burn for which it's known. But behind that burn, it was soft and rolling, or at least I think that's how Flint would describe it. And behind that, I could taste more – a sweetness and a peaty dryness mixing together and competing for my taste buds. I was learning. It felt even better leaving my mouth and traveling down my throat. It settled in my stomach, spreading out, enveloping me like a warm blanket. As I melted back into the couch cushions, I quite suspected that Tomax was buttering me up. Whisky this good was either for friends or enemies. Despite my thoughts, Tomax couldn't think of me as a friend. There was no way. I took another sip.

Tomax held his glass in his hands, divining the future through the slatted city lights illuminating around it. He took another sip, paused, and then began. "Is it true they're shutting you down?"

It came as no surprise to me that he knew. Of course he would know. He would know before I did. "Is this still business?"

"Yes."

"Yes. They are." If he knew then, "Why give us the locations?"

"Because, even if the Joes are decommissioned, there will be others interested in following up. The information doesn't do us much good. Cobra is in tatters and we've distanced ourselves from any of the aftermath. Should more come of it though, I'd like to think that this little offering would go a long way toward smoothing over any disagreements." He took another sip. "And to ask a question, I must offer something in return. I believe one would say we're even now."

I had taken another sip while he spoke and was starting to feel a little lightheaded. This was strong, aged stuff and I'm not known for having a cast iron stomach. So many thoughts swirled around my head but I couldn't give voice to a single one. They were dandelion seeds on the wind, slipping through my fingers, floating away from me. "That's, that's it?"

"For business." He glanced over at me, nudging toward my glass. "I see I still have some time left. So now we shall talk as friends."

With my reason gone off with my thoughts, I took another sip, the smooth beverage settling down and kindling my interest in talking as friends. The bite of scotch would make it easy to be friends. I trusted him, yet I didn't.

He reached over and placed a hand on the small strip of exposed skin between my knee and his jacket, his fingers curling around the curve of my lower thigh. He wasn't being fresh; he was being familiar. It wasn't a sexual touch. I didn't flinch. I accepted. I stared at the glass in my hand, transfixed by the glow within. Why wasn't I moving away?

Then I felt it. It was the faint tendril of an emotion from him, reaching out, curling around me, wrapping into me. The beat of my heart wasn't my own. The breaths of air I took were his. I saw the world through tired, jaded eyes. I felt tired, so tired. I was exhausted, but so was he. The exhaustion of my mind wasn't mine alone. I felt his. His exhaustion raged through me. Oh god, please don't let it start again.

Again.

Not again. I couldn't. I couldn't be connected to him again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Sorry for what was more than a brief delay. Should have known better than to start a story during the peak of bad weather, shut-downs, and illnesses galore. Thankfully it's finally Spring and it looks like it's going to stick. Hope you all get to enjoy the change in weather. And thanks to Mossley and Bugsymutt for encouragement. Definitely bothering you after this.


	3. Blood Brothers

**Chapter Three: Blood Brothers**

Imagine if you will a typical day in your life. Think of all the many interactions and incidents you experience in the span of twenty-four hours. Now think about the emotional response brought on by these incidents. Something may bring you joy, something else may make you sad. Although there is some argument on the subject, engage a group of academics on a subject and you're bound to get disagreement, many scientists will vouch that there are seven primary emotions experienced by humans: contempt, anger, surprise, disgust, happiness, fear, and sadness. They pinpoint these basic emotions because they all have certain associated facial expressions. But within these emotions run the gamut of related emotions, all subjective experiences, entirely dependent on the personality of the person involved. While one person may describe something as making her "happy," someone else may feel "exhilarated," still another merely "content." All of these emotions shape and define your day.

And what a day you can have. Between your primary, secondary, and tertiary emotions, from the time you wake until the time you sleep, you have the possibility of experiencing at least 100 different emotional responses. These responses can be as simple as the peace brought on by inhaling the pleasant aroma of a freshly-brewed cup of coffee or as complex as the rage, helplessness, and fear experienced after an intense disagreement with a loved one. Even if you choose to spend the entire day camped out in your pajamas snuggled under the covers with a good book, chances are that book and your surroundings will provide a full range of emotions as a day spent out in the sun.

Now imagine that you have no idea if these emotions are your own, that you have no idea if you feel affection for something or in actuality you don't care. For the Paoli twins, this is the sum of their existence. Since the time of their birth, they have gone about their lives experiencing it as two. At first their connection was a comfort. Their mother was amazed at how the brothers could pacify each other just by sleeping in the same crib. She then grew concerned after a ten month old Thomas rolled off her bed, but it was the ten month old Alexandre who shrieked in surprise and pain. It happened more often; the brothers never expressed their own physical discomfort. It was always a manifestation of what had happened to the other. A mother's worry led to questions, and the questions drew unwanted scrutiny. Superstitions set in. She began to distance herself, withdrawing from sons she saw as monsters and demons. By age five, the brothers learned that parental love would never be theirs – their father having never played a part in their lives. They became the outcasts of their village, always the object of mistrust and apprehension. They retreated into themselves, solidifying their bond to the exclusion of all else.

By the age of twelve, the twins had enough and set off on their own. Before they could interact with the rest of the world, they knew they had to manage their interactions with each other. Thus began a grueling process of controlling their emotions and learning to distinguish one's from the other's. One brother would go days without food to know his own hunger while his brother dined to excess. One would become intimate with the local prostitute while the other remained celibate, tempering the passions exploding in his body. They also taught themselves to communicate silently, to think a thought that only the other would hear. They perfected their unique manner of speaking, finishing a sentence, completing a thought, always keeping the enemy on its toes.

For that's how they saw the world; it was an enemy to be conquered. There was no love outside of what they could provide each other. Their mother, in denying them love, left them with something much worse in its stead – they believed her, they knew they were monsters. As monsters, the rules and morals that governed everyone else didn't apply to them. They had their own code, brotherhood above everything. Nothing would come between the brothers. At the age of sixteen, they felt ready and headed for Africa. They renamed themselves, Tomax and Xamot. They would be monsters on their own terms.

And they were. They lived by their code, taking on the world one acquisition at a time. Thieving and marauding led to the more elegant pursuits of corporate espionage and take-overs. On the field they were strong; in the board room they were invincible. They aspired higher.

But their dependence on each other came with a price. Although they were loath to admit, living the emotions of the other twin took its toll. At varying points in time, each desired to break free from their self-constructed prison, to live separate and apart, to be his own person. A twin would wake up with the other gone, knowing it was going to happen, but nevertheless surprised when it did. The twin left behind felt all the relief of the escaped, while the escaped felt the grief of the one left behind. They could never manage that way for long and always came back to each other. It was hard for them, hard for Tomax, harder still for Xamot. As the eldest, Tomax saw himself as Xamot's protector. No matter what happened, Tomax had his defined role. Xamot would be left floundering. And then Michelle happened.

Michelle was a classmate of Tomax's in law school. In order to conquer the last frontier of the business world, the brothers decided that they needed the diplomas to hang on the wall to give legitimacy to the knowledge they already possessed. Xamot chose business school and Tomax the study of law. Reverting to their birth names, they planned to keep their heads down and graduate at the top of their class. With their focus, nothing would stand their way. Despite every intention to stick to the game plan, Tomax looked up, he dared to dream. Michelle, with her long thick hair and infectious laugh, captured Tomax's imagination. She became his respite from the building storm. He felt as if he'd always been in a place of darkness and hers was a glow that might set him free. The code of brotherhood slowly crumbled, something new taking its place.

As Tomax found a purpose outside of the brothers, Xamot spiraled into despair, watching Tomax drift away. It was worse than the times before. The times before were something each brother could share. This was something Tomax couldn't share. Xamot became witness to his replacement. It was a horrible view. The training of their youth couldn't have prepared Xamot to experience the onslaught of true love. Physical desire was easy to ignore; this new thing was not. Xamot wanted it for himself. He desired Michelle with a fervor he knew not to be his. Yet he had to have her if not for himself but then to stick the dagger into Tomax and end the madness. Love not your own can drive you mad.

Xamot's misery was not isolated for Tomax experienced his own. Just as Xamot experienced love not his, Tomax bore the burden of Xamot's desolation. In love, Tomax was truly miserable. Tomax longed to comfort his brother all the while torturing himself over his lack of guilt for leaving Xamot behind. Such twisted emotions would be impossible for anyone to handle, let alone those connected in such a way as the brothers were. The agony and ecstasy swirled and tumbled inside the twins until a breaking point was reached. Xamot made a move to end it. Their code was broken in a most horrific way. Tomax extracted his revenge and walked away. He had a new life to think about. He was going to be a father.

It couldn't last. Tomax could never truly walk away. Xamot was a cry in his head he couldn't shut out. A choice had to be made, Michelle or Xamot. Tomax walked away from the only pure love he had ever known because there never really was a choice. Monsters are monsters, brotherhood.

He was wrong though, he isn't a monster. Only the purest of motives could have made him leave. When Michelle was threatened later on by the Commander, Tomax took it upon himself to save her. Not for him, but for Michelle, so that she could have the life he thought she deserved, even if that life would be without him. He was selfless. He lost his connection with his brother over it, or so he thought. He reached out to the Joes and we responded. After he explained to me what had happened, having that glimpse of Tomax's suffering, I would do anything to help him save Michelle. Once I decided, in that moment of choosing, we got mixed up somehow. Tomax was struggling and I must have been the closest thing he had with his brother gone. Suddenly, I knew exactly what it was like to be them. I connected with Tomax and bonded with him the way he was bound to his brother. I lived Tomax's emotions and surely he lived mine.

It began with dreams, dreams filled with such intensity and unfamiliarity. They were not the substance of my subconscious. My head swam with images I had never known, of sunrises over a Mediterranean sea and darkness spent hidden in an abandoned shed, willing my body to be my own. It wasn't though; I was sharing it. Never having known such intimacy before, I feared I was breaking. Reality seemed so far away. The days floated by in a sleepless haze. Always I fought to maintain control, to not sleep. I kept a rock in my pocket to squeeze if I felt like I might drift away.

Then it invaded my daytime. Not always, but at random points I would be hit with a thought or feeling unconnected to my surroundings. I tried to explain it to Flint. He tried to understand, but I knew he couldn't, not fully. He'd always made light of Tomax and Xamot, happily thinking of their situation as a sort of two for one. Hit one brother and you made an automatic impression on the other. What could be better than that? I'd always felt a little sad for them. What kind of life could it have been? I never spoke a word of those thoughts to Flint. Surely he'd laugh and tease me that I was going soft on the enemy. I'm not soft. Not like that. It's just that I could believe that the twins were trapped by a circumstance over which they had no control. I knew what it was like to be trapped. I tried to get by. It was taking its wear.

Flint urged me to speak to Psyche-Out. I didn't. I already had one person in my head and didn't need another. It would have added more complication to an already impossibly complex situation. You see, there were things I held back from Flint. There were things I couldn't tell him. Some of the emotions flowing through me he'd never survive. Some involved an intense hatred of him. We could be alone together, maybe watching television in the rec room. He'd reach over and drape an arm across my shoulders, drawing me close. Suddenly the thought of him touching me, of even being in the same room, repulsed me. I wanted to wipe his touch away and flee. I had to fight it even though my stomach turned with the effort. I knew that if I could just hold out, the feeling would pass. I could never share this with Flint. No one should ever know that.

Then there was one time when things got out of hand. I hadn't seen Flint for two weeks. He was sent out on a mission to some god forsaken place with little chance of success. It was one of those utterly classified affairs where, being denied the basic of facts, your mind runs all the far-fetched scenarios to their conclusions until all you're left with is the worst possible outcome. Missions like these come with our job. I don't like the risk, but I'd never ask him to say no. I try to accept that the man I love has the ability to do so much good, and focus on that. I was having a hard time focusing on the positives this time. I was a mess, unsure if I was scared because I was scared that Flint wouldn't come back, or if somewhere out there Tomax was scared that he would come back. Flint had been my lodestone through it all and being away from him left me adrift, compounding my misery.

Halfway through the week there was chatter that the mission had gone south. All contact with Flint's team was cut. Command feared the team had been compromised. I never paced as much as I did those last few days. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I could feel Tomax willing strength to me. I was zapping his. Scarlett tried to reassure. She meant well; she couldn't know what was really going on in my head. No one did.

Then word came through that the team was ok. Flint was coming home. I didn't care how late they arrived, I waited. The sight of the helicopter hovering low against the dark desert sky before its final descent broke whatever resolve I had to act cool. The moment Flint trudged down the ramp and his boots hit the hard concrete, I bolted for him. It was late and most had already gone to bed. I figured Hawk would look away that once. He'd been worried too.

I followed Flint back to his quarters, relieved if not a little lost. There would be no debriefing tonight or tomorrow morning. Hawk knew what his men had suffered and gave them a reprieve. Rest now, consequences later. For the first time in a long time we were exempt from the base's constant ticking clock. Flint locked his door, his nerves betrayed by the slight tremor in his hand. This was new ground for us. It was a brazen act for me to be in his room that late without any pretense. No one was going to tell him no. And no sooner had Flint's duffle bag dropped to the floor then his hands found something else to hold, crushing me in a needful embrace. I took hungrily from his mouth, willing my body to meld into his. He kissed my tears, comforting me with words he needn't say. I tried to be gentle; he had gone through so much. We collapsed onto the bed, kicking off boots and stripping away clothes. It was just us. It was our passion and our love.

Then it wasn't.

As Flint traced the contours of my body, it felt like a million suns burning my skin. Our joining caused such extreme pleasure to pulse through me, wave after endless wave. It was unnatural and frightening, but I had to have more. It couldn't stop. Never had things felt like that before. Every touch was electric and every sensation greater than the one before. My brain pounded with the blood raging through my body. Things shouldn't feel like that. A person should die. I had to have made another connection. I had Flint, and Tomax had someone too. I cried out in horror, but I was in thrall with the ecstasy. Tomax and I were feeding off of each other. Knowing that, I should have stopped it; I wasn't strong enough. Flint glowed serene at the end, dropping into a needful sleep. I cried, ashamed. I couldn't live like that anymore.

Tomax surely picked up on that for he took a drastic step to sever our connection. He went to Dr. Mindbender. Xamot had gone to Dr. Mindbender to remove any of the impact Michelle had on him. Xamot had all of those memories erased and urged Tomax to do the same. Tomax resisted. I think to save me Tomax willingly gave himself to Mindbender. It meant that Tomax abandoned any hope we had that he would be his own person. Once Tomax was back in the fold, it eliminated me. There could only be two. It was Tomax's second act.

Being suddenly cut-off from Tomax had its own consequences. Having been so tied to him, it was a complete shock to my system to be free. It wasn't that I wanted to remain connected to Tomax – quite the contrary, I wanted to be free – it was hard to adjust to the sound of absence in my head. My thoughts felt so cold and hollow. The moment it was only me, I went into hysterics. That was the one thing I couldn't hide from Flint. Flint let himself in and stayed with me through the night, never questioning, just being. It was finally over.

And here it was again, I could feel Tomax as part of my thoughts. I felt desperate, but I think it was his desperation. The thought filled me until my heart was racing and my hands shook. My glass fell to the ground, the whisky soaking into the cream carpet. I felt a moment of irritation that I'd have to clean the carpet again.

That broke the hold and I used it to push back and pull away from Tomax, skittering to the end of the coach. He was still in my head, though not as strong. I tried to use it to my advantage, summoning my rage. "What are you doing!" I was glad when he winced and rubbed at his temples.

"It's the only way to know." He was struggling; he held his hand out, palm facing up.

I shook my head. I wasn't going through this again, no way, no how.

"Please, as friends." He stood up, and moved over, taking a seat on the ottoman in front of me.

"We're not . . ."

"I know." His words were sharp, cutting me off midsentence. "We can help each other though. You can read my thoughts. I mean you no harm."

It was true, he had me there. All I picked up from him was renewed desperation and fear, fear that this, whatever it was, wouldn't work. It was a desperate move for a desperate hour.

He reached his hands out in front of him, palms up. "Please take my hands."

Taking a gulp, I bit my bottom lip, weighing my meager options. If I left, I didn't know if we'd remain this way, connected. How would that impact my life? Could I survive it again? I knew I couldn't. Then a side thought crept in, could I keep the blazer?

_You can't_.

Ouch! His thought stung as he rolled his eyes. I shrugged. It was a relevant question. I wasn't getting out of here with what was left of my Maid Brigade get-up. All I got in response to that thought was an exasperated snort. I continued my silent deliberations. His turmoil, that was real. This was important to him. Enough that he did this all knowing the large risk that his brother would find out. That thought was surprising, Xamot didn't know. And the risk that the Joes wouldn't cooperate or that we still had things left up our sleeve to take him down. Tomax planned as carefully as he could with what he had. He was looking to me now. I was all he had left.

And then it dawned on me. I really was the closest thing he had to a friend. His lifestyle, his connection with Xamot, had denied him much over the years. Michelle was but a fraction of all he would never have. Yes, he made his own choices, but I don't think they were always so selfish. It wouldn't take much for me to grant him this one act of kindness. So I did it, I reached over and grabbed his hands, closing my eyes.

I opened them and Tomax and I were standing in Hawk's filing room. It was just off to the right from Hawk's personal conference room and was filled top to bottom with stacked filing cabinets. Hawk and I are the only ones with the keys. All of Hawk's active files were there. Damn, I was just played.

"No you weren't." Tomax left my side and began to open some of the drawers, riffling through meticulously maintained manila file folders.

This wasn't right. Hawk's files, no matter how hard I tried, were never this orderly. Hawk was old school and just shoved things in open spaces. I probably got stuck with the "clerk" job designation because I was the only one who could make any order out of Hawk's jumble of papers and notepads. These organized files were not Hawk's. I took a few steps forward and stood behind Tomax. The drawer he was rummaging through was labeled "Gum." Tomax flipped through a few files, muttering to himself. I stepped away from him and ran my hand up the front of a cabinet. Each drawer was labeled in neat, clean script. One drawer was labeled "Skeletons in the Closet" another was labeled "Dickens." One was labeled "Jimmy" and it went on across three rows. I knew that writing. It was mine. We were in my head.

Tomax was on a mission and whatever he needed was in my head. If that was the case then why didn't he . . .

Tomax closed another drawer. "Because I can't get the information from asking you. It has to be like this." He turned back to his work, opening and closing drawers, glancing at folders, moving frantically. His pace was giving me a fit. I willed him to be calm, to take a breath. He waved a dismissive hand at me. There was no time. Two hours wasn't enough.

And then he found it, several feet down the row, he kneeled in front of a bottom drawer, fingers caressing the front of a file. I joined him. The drawer was "Harthaven." The folder he pulled out was marked "Reunion" and was crisp and unblemished, relatively new.

"This one, I need this one." He handed it over. "I shouldn't open it. It will mess with your memories."

I took it in my hands and opened it. Memories spilled out. I closed my eyes against the rush, opening them again to the smells of sea salt and a clam bake. Turning around, the sky was bright blue with fluffy clouds floating on an invisible breeze. It was a warm day, but the air was sharp with the ocean, hinting at the crisp evening to come. I slowly turned, taking in the scene of Harts, young and old, taking up every possible space, the chatter of their voices blending into a soft din. I glanced over at Tomax standing next to me. "Is this right?"

"I think so."

Good. Harthaven. The Vineyard. We were home.


	4. Home Is Where the Hart Is

**Chapter Four: Home Is Where the Hart Is**

Harthaven is a small community located on the northeastern end of Martha's Vineyard. It was settled by my great-great uncle, William H. Hart. President of Stanley Tool Works, William's engineering prowess was matched by his business acumen, making him a formidable force in the board room. After he transformed Stanley into a national powerhouse, he turned his attention to the family business. Looking for another challenge, William took on the unenviable task of getting the family's finances up to par. For too long they had sat idle in safe local investments. The Harts were not one to create any waves. William was. He applied what he had learned during his tenure at Stanley and took the Harts to the next level. A few thousand here, a few thousand there, and suddenly you were talking real money.

Because of his expertise, William became the unofficial patriarch of the Connecticut Harts – not to be confused with the Massachusetts Harts, the New York Harts, or the Illinois Harts. While the Harts of today are scattered around the world, we all trace our lineage to one of the preceding geographical lines.

The Connecticut Harts are the industrialists and engineers. Good with their hands, they are the dreamers of the family tree. The Connecticut Harts are content with a modest income that comes from hard work and lulling summers. They like to drink, some more than others, and be merry. Life for them is best lived among family.

The New York Harts, on the other hand, are the "showier" side of the family. They like the spotlight and all of its trappings. Most have cut their teeth on Wall Street at some point. They have a bit of a ruthless air. Their vice is gambling, preferably with other people's money on some risky venture. If you read about a Hart in the newspaper, chances are he's a New York Hart. _Tacky_, my grandmother would say.

The Illinois Harts are a bit removed from the rest. They are the drifters and the opportunists. The branch started when a few brothers moved to Chicago to take advantage of Prohibition's coming end. They stayed, falling in love with the city and blending in with its "us against the world" attitude. With the exception of exchanging Christmas cards and signing yearly checks, I don't have much contact with them.

Then there are the Massachusetts Harts, my branch of the tree. Like the settlers at Jamestown, the Massachusetts Harts lay claim to being the ones who were here first. They are the group who never rest – idle hands are the work of the devil and all that. The pragmatists of the family, they put into place the carefully thought out rules of inheritance. Because of their methodical approach, no one has ever overtly challenged the leadership of the family corporation. Sure there is always talk, but words never transform to deeds. Thus, as it always has been, there are no outside shareholders with whom to be beholden, just Harts. The Massachusetts Harts guaranteed that. It wasn't without cost; the Massachusetts Harts can be cold.

Although I am a Massachusetts Hart by line, I'm a Connecticut Hart in my, well, heart. A family trip to the Vineyard was ill-timed with the arrival of a nor'easter. My dad and my pregnant mom ended up staying longer than planned. My mom developed some complications and was put on bed rest. My subsequent early arrival at MV Hospital further extended that trip. I was un-officially adopted by the Vineyard clan and could call that place home.

And what a place to call home. In 1871, William Hart bought five lots on the eastern end of the Vineyard, combining them to build his family's summer compound. Forty years and five children later, William, ever the entrepreneur, formed Hart Realty and bought up the surrounding land. He sold off the plots to relatives and Harthaven was born.

William's children eventually married and the family spread out, building their houses next to each other. It created a familiar community, one where life slows down for a summer. Because it's so populated with Harts, those on the outside tend to view it as snooty. It's anything but. It is the kind of place that survives on its own. Because it is family, it can be insular. I think it's that cohesiveness that people mistake for snobbery. No one would ever look down upon you if you weren't a part of Harthaven; it's only that there isn't much interaction with those who aren't. There doesn't need to be.

Grandmother Hart hated Harthaven. She hated its informality. She liked structure and order. She liked waking up each day and having a purpose. On the Vineyard, you can meander through an entire week with no particular purpose. After my parents died, Grandmother Hart dropped me off at Harthaven for a few weeks each summer at the cousin's request. I suspect she was glad to be rid of me for a while. It was too much like having a ghost around. I also think she dreaded my return. In place of the prim and proper girl would be a wild child of the island. My carefully plaited hair would be tangled and bleached from the sun. I'd have bruises on my shins and splinters in my feet. I always lost my shoes. At Harthaven, no one cares if you wear shoes.

Those weeks would be the best of my life. I wasn't expected to be someone other than me. I could mourn for my loss and not feel weak. I could smile and not feel like I was betraying a memory. I learned to swim and to fish. I even got knocked about in the informal Harthaven sailing school. In all, I learned how to live.

The best visits were those that coincided with summer's end. Every year the residents of Harthaven celebrate the end of summer with a do-it-yourself clambake. The location and people change, but the spirit remains the same. Everyone brings something and everyone takes something away. The older generations teach the new ones the island's secrets. Stories are retold and embellished. Recipes improved and expanded. More than anything, it is the glow from so many connected in the most basic way. It is the love of family, both blood and not, expanding its grasp, holding so many under its sway. Sitting on porch steps, looking out over the harbor, I knew in my heart, the Connecticut Harts got it right.

I didn't though. I had a falling out of sorts and delayed visiting until the time spent away became too great to go back. I became the outsider, a mere interloper. I would stay at my parents' house – now mine –further south on the island. Harthaven felt off-limits. It wasn't mine anymore.

This past year, Edwin convinced me to come back for the end of summer fete. I'm not sure why I accepted his invitation. It wasn't my burning desire to see what had changed; I'd rather hoped that nothing had. But if nothing had changed, then I had no reason to go back. Despite that apparent paradox, I went.

Loading up my moped, I drove up the road into Harthaven territory. I probably could have walked. In this instance, I preferred the ease of a quick getaway. I parked my bike toward the end of the driveway with thoughts of my exit in mind. Heart thumping, nervous beads of sweat rolling down my back, I approached the gathering. It looked as it always had, clusters of people talking and laughing, eating and drinking. The only thing different was the clothes. I felt the weight of history with each footstep. It hadn't changed. I needed to go. Edwin spotted me, motioning me over to where he stood. I scurried over, eager to hand over my pie and slink away unnoticed. Edwin wasn't going to let me go, introducing me to many of the new faces.

His group of assorted same-age cousins welcomed me and soon enfolded me into their conversation. My internal trepidation must have been radiating out of me because Edwin placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. I let out my breath, willing my nervousness to follow. We have a tendency to believe that others will judge us more severely than they actually do. As I stood there, listening to the conversation, I realized that no one was judging me. No one seemed to care. The greatest judging had been in my own mind. I started to relax. Things had changed.

I tried to tap into that spirit for it was weird standing there inside my memory. I looked over at Tomax again, but he was somewhere else, his gaze surveying the crowd. I wish I knew what he wanted, it could make this easier. I felt out of place in my own head. I couldn't see what Tomax wanted and happened to turn my head, instantly regretting the decision. The image was blurry and granular before jumping into focus. My stomach heaved and I felt unsteady on my feet. Looking forward, the roller coaster stopped and things settled down inside.

"Your brain is filling in the gaps."

"Huh?"

"The lag you felt. You really don't know what was behind you at that moment because you didn't look before. Your mind is filling in the blanks. It takes a moment to process."

I tested his theory, looking behind me again. The horizon jolted and I lost my footing, landing firmly on my bottom.

"Just trust me on this. I have more experience." He held out a hand, which I begrudgingly took. I didn't have to say anything. By the roll of his eyes, I knew he heard every word I was thinking.

"So what now?" I straightened my skirt, turning to Tomax, who was already several paces ahead of me, rushing toward something. I scrambled to catch up. Tomax dodged a group of picnic tables, barely missing a head-on collision with Aunt Janet. Good thing too because Janet had about 150 pounds on Tomax. I, however, wasn't as nimble as Tomax and plowed through an unknown cousin who suddenly appeared in my path. Taking a few steps back, I bumped into another cousin, but rather than bump it was more like I phased through that cousin. I recoiled, jarred by the lack of sensation. I guess I assumed that if I was walking through my memories, I would somehow be more corporeal. I held my hand up to the sun, reassuring myself that it was indeed solid. The ground supported me, the blades of grass squished under my shoes, yet my cousins were only mist in the air.

I looked around for an explanation. It came in the form of a sparkling engagement ring hanging from my third cousin Margot's finger. She took heroin chic to a whole new level and could probably wear the ring as a bracelet. I remembered her from that day. We were both forced into a conversation neither of us wanted to have, a discussion of our respective weddings. She had hers planned down to the acceptable nail polish colors for her bridesmaids. She was marrying so-and-so from such-and-such family. It was going to be a royal affair the likes of which the family had not seen in some time. As for me, I didn't even have a date set. I couldn't help but stare at her ring that day. It could eat mine. Funny how things like that never bothered me until the moment she looked down her nose at mine. It took a lot to not defend Flint before the court of Margot. He wouldn't have wanted that. I kept it in check that day. But there were no notions of polite society in my head, so I did what I've always wanted to do, I slapped her, hard.

Bony cheek vs. soft palm wins. I shook my hand furiously, wincing at the pain. Were her cheeks made out of metal? She was like a first generation terminator. I always knew she wasn't human. Margot, for her part, continued on with her conversation, oblivious to me. That's when my brain trust kicked in. Those faceless cousins I could walk through were a product of my current brain trying to process what my past brain did not. The lawn, the sky, Margot – I remembered those. I didn't fall through the ground because I had walked it. I had spoken with Margot. Hadn't slapped her – physically anyway – thus she was real and very solid to me. The random cousins, I didn't know them and my brain was simply filling in the gaps.

With the physics out of the way, I needed to figure out what Tomax wanted from all of this. I wasn't leaving until that was resolved. These were my memories and I wasn't going to have him running around them for the rest of my life. I looked around, steeling my stomach against the shifting lags. I tried to focus on what had been there for me. Across the way was cousin William, I had forgotten he was there, and his wife Bea. Her arms clutched her stomach she was laughing so hard. Only one person could make you laugh harder than William. And there he was, Edwin, leaning up against the side of the house. And where Edwin was . . . I knew.

I sprinted to the side of the house facing the pond. A group of the family's youngest members were splashing in a roped-off shallow area. The pond's surface was smooth and there wasn't any danger of unexpected waves or rip tides. Children could play at the water's edge without too much worry. Two boys, identical in every way, from dark wavy hair that did what it wanted to deep brown wide-set eyes, were splashing each other at the shore, taunting and teasing. A few feet away, Michelle sat on the ground, arms wrapped around her legs, a content smile on her face. Her hair was long and cascaded down her back. She pushed a stray lock behind her ear, oblivious to the figure seated right in front of her.

Tomax reached out, trailing fingers down her cheek, taking in the whole of her. I watched as his eyes absorbed her image. He ran his hand down her arm, resting it on top of hers. It was like he was seeing her for the first time. And in a way, he was. I wiped away a tear, sucking in my lips. Such pain and longing. I sank down to the ground next to him as he encircled his hands around hers.

"I would have shared this with you."

He shook his head. "You couldn't, not like you think. If you tried to share it with me, it wouldn't be the same. You wouldn't mean to, but you'd change it, you would think of what I'd want. I need your memory as it is, no alteration, no commentary. I need to see it as you did to make it my own."

"But if you told me . . ."

"You were right, I did go to Mindbender. It was the only way to make it all stop. I allowed Mindbender to do to me what he did to Xamot – he took the memories away. He went into my head and erased them. It was like none of it ever existed. Xamot and I were one again. Naturally Mindbender tried to insert thoughts of undying allegiance to the Commander." Tomax smirked. "As if that could ever fill the void.

"He wasn't entirely successful. He couldn't take everything away. I was able to hide some things where he'd never find them. They're just residual thoughts, shadows of what was. I need more. I need them back."

"Then that's what this is all about." I was starting to catch on.

"I'm sorry."

And he was. I understood what he hoped to gain from this. He intended to take parts of this memory and make them his own. Where he filled his void, I'd have one in its place. I would remember the party, but not this part. Michelle by the lake would become his. That's why I couldn't share the memory with him. He didn't want to share. I'll admit to an initial flare of anger at having my thoughts robbed in such a brazen way. Tomax flinched as I worked through it. Never once did he turn my way and take his eyes off of Michelle. If I refused him, he'd still be left with a memory of a memory.

That was enough to make my decision. Call me a sucker but I reached over and placed my hand on top of his. "You can have this. But there's more." I closed my eyes, opening them again. Tomax and I were sitting on a white wooden porch swing, looking out over a freshly mowed lawn as Edwin's twins played soccer in the front yard. Edwin leaned against the railing to his Falls Church home, lemonade in his hand. He was talking about the latest proposal in some House subcommittee and its potential impacts on our timber subsidy.

It was a sweltering summer and Edwin pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping the sweat forming at his temples. My service uniform was sticking to the back of my neck. Hawk and I had just gotten out of another meeting at the Pentagon to argue against the Joes' fate. There were a lot of those this past summer. It was a Friday and Hawk gave a wink as he blocked me from boarding the plane headed back to the base. "_Take the weekend off and I'll see you on Monday._" Before I could protest, Hawk had the final word. "_It's an order._"

In theory, there were a lot of options at that point. I could have gone downtown, checked into a hotel, and had a nice respite from the madness back on base. Or I could have headed out to Virginia's wine country and done a bit of sampling, checking into a comfy B&B for a little downtime. I didn't think to do any of those. Only one option jumped out at me. I called Edwin and he invited me to visit.

That weekend was still fresh in my mind and I knew what I could do. "Follow me." I stood up from the swing and walked into the house, Tomax close behind me. I went past the center staircase and down a narrow hallway. On either side were photos of the twins over the years. Tomax stopped in front of the most recent picture, his hands gripped into tight fists at his side. He blinked once, trying to shake away the thought that those pictures should have been so much more to him. I tugged at his sleeve. "We don't have much time." In a daze, Tomax nodded, allowing me to lead him into the kitchen. Michelle was there, humming to herself while preparing sandwiches for the boys. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail and she had a sundress on. Tomax's breath caught in his throat. I stayed back as Tomax entered the room. "You can have this too."

He turned to me, speechless.

"I'll wait on the porch." I exited the house and resumed my place on the swing. As I half-listened to a conversation I already had, I looked out at the street, watching the cars pop in and out of my vision. I wondered if I would ever have this, this little corner of the world that Edwin claimed. Could Flint and I ever have this? Sure Flint's talked about settling down in Kansas, giving up the gun for the pen. I had a hard time believing it. So much of what Flint is – is what he does. I couldn't picture him as anything but a soldier. And that was setting aside the issue of me. What could I be? Would I be content? Giving it all up. Would this make me happy? Could I ever be?

"I think you could if you let yourself." Tomax settled down next to me. "You have to learn to let it go."

I sprang up from the swing, backing away from him. I didn't like where he was headed.

"You need to stop torturing yourself about the past."

"What are you talking about?" My words barely came out as a whisper.

He held his hands up in defense. "Surely you have to realize that as much as you know about me, I know about you."

I shook my head back and forth. "No. No you don't know."

"I do." He stood up, approaching me. Edwin and the house were gone and it was just Tomax and me standing in the darkness. "How do you think I was able to do it?"

Scratching at the back of my neck I fought against what was only logical. He would know. I could hide from everyone but him. I clenched my eyes shut, willing it all away.

"You had the key."

I opened my eyes and we were standing in a library. Shelves 15 rows high reached up toward the ceiling, which was covered in a beautiful mosaic tile, surrounding a frosted circular skylight. The room itself was a cylinder with no visible door, with only the shelves serving as its walls. A plush oriental carpet covered the floor. It felt off though. For such a grand room, it contained precious little. The shelves were mostly empty. I was standing next to a chair and side table. On the table was one of the only books present. I picked it up. There was no title on the cover nor any words on its spine. I tried to pry it open; it was as if the pages were glued shut.

"This is it. This is where I hid what I could. I learned it from you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Are we going to play this game? Please Lady Jaye, actually, do you mind if I call you Alison? I think we're past code names." Tomax stretched himself out on a sofa. "In your mind I saw how you could compartmentalize the different facets of your life. Undercover work went here, clerical work over there. Your life, your thoughts . . . your loves, it's all locked away.

"It gave me an idea. I could fool Mindbender. I could protect my memories here." He gestured to the shelves. "I took what I could and locked it away. My brother would never fathom that I could do this and Mindbender never thought to look." He grabbed a book, flipping through its pages. "It's all here, what I could save."

"But Michelle?"

"Some things I had to sacrifice to make it look real." He pointed to the book in my hand.

I held it out and he took it, splitting it open, running his fingers across the pages before cradling it against his chest. He looked into my eyes. "I can take it away, hide it here. You won't have to live with it. I've done it before." He pointed behind me.

Here it was, his return offering, a favor for a favor. Turning around, there was a shelf section locked behind an iron accordion gate, like revered volumes tucked away in the Vatican library. A few dusty tomes were stacked on top of each other behind the barrier. I felt a chill. These contained the darkest of deeds. This was the burden he carried for Xamot. He remembered so that Xamot could forget.

"Don't be mistaken. It isn't all his." He leaned forward, hands clasped between his legs. "Why won't you see me for who I am?"

"I do see you."

"Dostoyevsky said that nothing is easier than to denounce the evil doer. Nothing is more difficult than to understand him. I appreciate that you try. Still, you step around me. I've always wondered that about you. Why do you give me a chance? But in thinking about it, I think I actually understand you more."

"No you don't."

"See, that's where we disagree. You see so much in me if only for the chance to see redemption in yourself. For if I am the sum of my deeds, where does that leave you?"

"Shut up." I wiped away hot angry tears from my eyes. My cheeks were red.

"When faced with the truth, that's your come back? Shut up?"

"Stop."

"You can change your name, your life. You can try and lock it deep down in your mind where you think you'll forget. You won't. You can't live as two people. It will tear you apart. This I know. Let me set you free."

"To be like you?"

"I don't want you to be like me, that's why I'm trying to help."

"I don't want your help." I turned away from him, focusing on those dusty books, my head pounding with the confrontation. I believed in Tomax because he was a person worth believing in not because it had anything to do with me. I know Flint thought I was soft when it came to our enemy, that I attached some weird antiquated ideal of the redeemable rogue. It wasn't an ideal. I knew that person was in there. Were these books not proof? Who would sacrifice his very happiness to shield a brother who would never do the same? Who would carry around this guilt, for that's what these books were, written histories of all that was wrong. Who would carry this burden for me?

And I knew I did want his help. Looking at those books locked away, I was tempted. No one would be hurt. No one would know. I would be free and Tomax would act as the librarian, a role he knew well. He wanted it. I felt it. It was something a friend would do. He wanted to be my friend.

And if I let him, what a reward it would be for me. To think, no more doubts or fears. No guilt. No shame. No more looking over my shoulder, waiting for it all to crumble to dust. Kansas could be.

"Except for that. I don't know why you waste your time on that dolt."

"Call him that again and I'll take it all back."

He raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"He's a kind and honorable man. He's a better person than you and I will ever be."

"Ah yes, the type of man who throws enemy soldiers off of cliffs?" He gave me a wry grin. "Forgiven him for that, have you?"

I winced. "There wasn't, I mean, there isn't anything to forgive."

His hand gave a dismissive wave. "Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

He had me there. Of all the people in the world, I couldn't lie to Tomax. He knew my thoughts. He once was privy to secrets no one would ever know. He was privy to them now. He knew how I felt about what Flint did on that day . . . that could be gone. Before me was a whole library of forget. How different would life be if I abdicated responsibility to Tomax?

I turned to Tomax, ready to accept his proposal. Tomax held out his hand and I couldn't take it. Only I could account for my sins. This wasn't for Tomax. I didn't want it. Not like this. If I was to make amends, it would be of my own volition with my own two hands. Those things that had happened, they didn't make a person. They couldn't. If they did, I was lost long ago. And Tomax . . .

"Don't worry about me."

I felt like I failed him. His hand squeezed mine. "You didn't fail me. Thank you."

We were back in his office, faces inches apart, our hands intertwined. A tear made its slow journey down my cheek, pausing with a shudder before its fall. Tomax shook his head. "You'll find your way."

I knew though, I would never find my way. I wasn't as strong in the world as I was in my mind. I regretted my choice, jerking my hands away from his. And then the headache hit. It was a sucker punch to my left and right temples; the pain came on like a speeding express train shooting out of a tunnel. My choice was forgotten in the ensuing obliteration of my mind. I fell back into the couch, clutching my head, starting to feel sick inside.

"No!" Tomax knelt at my side, pushing my hair back away from my face. The only indication I had of his concern was the look on his face. I felt nothing else from him. Our connection was gone.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . . I didn't think." Tomax was rocking back and forth on his knees, spewing apologies. "I forgot about the pain when Xamot and I first learned how to connect. I didn't even think of it for you." He darted out of my vision.

My head was starting to settle, but the vertigo brought on by the pain started to have an impact on my stomach. I wrapped my hands around my belly, pulling my legs in closer. I buried my head into the cool couch, praying that I didn't throw-up. That would be a notch against my pride.

Tomax reappeared with an ice pack in his hand. He resumed kneeling in front of me and placed the cold pack against the back of my neck. I drew a quick intake of air as the cold stunned my senses. It felt relieving.

"Chuckles is on his way."

"Please don't tell him." I couldn't give voice to my thoughts. I missed that connection with Tomax.

He understood. "Don't worry. I'll think of something."

I felt myself fade until there was Chuckles' voice, thundering and throbbing in my head. It was suddenly muffled by Tomax's hand placed over my ear. They were talking about me and pondering what I could have eaten. Again with what I eat. People must think I have the weakest stomach in the free world.

Chuckles face appeared next to Tomax's. "Hey girl, what happened?" He stole a dark look at Tomax.

Thinking fast, "I think I ate something bad." Why fight fate? If it saved me from trying to concoct some rationalization for the irrational, so be it. I couldn't tell you if Tomax was really in my head or if I ended up in his. In my time as a Joe, I've witnessed many fantastical things. From a clone composed of long-dead leaders to a man walking around town with a fully-functional steel mask on his head, the impossible was always possible when you were a Joe. This was but one more thing to add to the list. Unfortunately, it would also add a lot of paperwork. I wasn't in any condition to defend my sanity before some faceless panel. Food poisoning was as good anything, so I went with it.

Good thing too because I heard more commotion as Beach Head stormed into the room, yelling at J.T. to stand down. Fat chance that did. J.T.'s voice joined the fray. Flint would be both pleased and displeased with the mission for I managed to elude and get caught all in the same day. I knew I was going to hear about this one for a while. Chuckles stood up and left my side to join the rest of the team.

Tomax took the opportunity to lean in close to me, setting my shoes down on the floor. "If you change your mind."

I nodded, feeling the pain subside as the desire for sleep increased.

Tomax stroked my head. "You'll be tired for a bit. Sleep is the best thing." He glanced behind, gauging his time. Chuckles was getting antsy. Our time was up. "Thank you." Those two words expressed more than his gratitude; they said good bye.

I tried to reply but he was gone. His face became Chuckles, who became J.T. As J.T. picked me up in his arms, I couldn't help but think that the world was so big. There existed millions of people and places I would never know. I could change my mind. As sleep descended, I didn't know what I would do with Tomax's offer. I would never see him again. Yet here was J.T. The world suddenly seemed so small.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks to idstealer000 for making me think more about Tomax's characterization. You raised some interesting perspectives, which I appreciate, even if this isn't quite what you had in mind. When I was thinking about how to make Tomax more than just a bad guy gone good, IDW sent out its weekly release email with the first page from Transformers: More than Meets the Eye No. 28, which used the Dostoyevsky quote. That seemed to fit the discussion and flesh it out a bit more. Also – I learned about Harthaven history from a webpage I found while researching this story some time ago. I didn't save the address and I couldn't locate it now. There are a few articles and snippets that came up in searches and I borrowed some information from William Hart's wikipedia page, taking the necessary creative liberties. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing!


	5. The Wind Shifts

**Chapter Five: The Wind Shifts**

About a few miles due north from the base sits Buck's Hiking and Camping with its constant glowing neon sign, _What we have here will help you out there_. Underneath the words an arrow points toward the distant mountains. One wouldn't call Buck's an institution. To get that kind of reputation, one needs more in the way of paying customers. Buck's is more of a home opened up to accommodate friend and stranger alike. Richard Buchanan Miller, the "Buck" of Buck's, was born of the baby boom generation. Raised on freshly manicured lawns and jello-mold summers, Buck, as he is known – then and now – rebelled, as did so many of his peers. As a freshman at Berkeley, Buck fell in lock and step with the summer of love crowd. He let his hair grow long and eschewed anything he felt screamed authority. That eventually meant Berkeley itself. In the middle of his junior year, he packed up his bags and decided to hit the road, much to his parents' dismay. He would see America as it was, the heart and soul of its backcountry. He drove around in his orange beat-up Volkswagen Beetle without any particular destination in mind until he came here. Utah – let's face it, it's really no big secret where the base is located, I mean, how many times is Cobra going to attack before we face facts – spoke to Buck. The dried dirt and sand, the looming mountains, it all meant something. A few weeks backpacking through the desert and Buck claimed he had an epiphany. His purpose was to help others with theirs, purpose in life that is.

Fortunately Buck's mother never broke ties with her son. Reconciliation was soon had with his father. Afterward, Buck washed his hair and tied it back with a discarded buckskin lace. He shaved once a week and bought a new chambray shirt. With his parents as co-signers, Buck took on a not-insignificant loan to rehab an abandoned gas station into his vision, Buck's.

Buck's started out as a simple store catering to those, who like him, found themselves out wandering without proper supplies. He stocked a lot of water, compasses, and socks. Soon, he added on a storeroom and started offering bigger and better equipment like tents, hand and foot warmers, sunglasses, and sleeping bags. As science and societal views progressed, so did Buck's. One bottle of SPF 15 lotion was joined by an assortment of lotions and balms until a whole display case stood proudly on one side of the entrance with an overhead sign proclaiming, _If you want more time out there, you need sunblock from here_. A skin cancer scare in the late 80s served as confirmation for his newfound view.

The people who come to Buck's tend to congregate. Buck saw another opportunity. He dipped into the store's equity and financed several renovations. He added a small coffee café to the front and added a restaurant and bar to the back. The bar is how he made the Joes' acquaintance. Sometimes you have to get off base. You don't have the ability to go far, that goes without saying; you just need to go someplace to be reminded that you were human. You want to eat and drink and laugh without the reminder of what it is you really are. Buck's ably serves that need. I don't know who first discovered Buck's; my introduction was through Mainframe and Ripcord when our Wednesday meeting fell flat. Mainframe had heard of Buck's from some of the techies, who had picked up the information from Gung-Ho, who claimed that it was Roadblock who had first stumbled upon the bar. Whoever it was, I thank them. Buck's has been a perfect respite.

The bar set-up is pretty standard and straight out of a Hollywood movie. There's a long mahogany bar stretching across one side. A few of Buck's remembrances from another life hang above. Buck's is the place to catch Saturday afternoon Cal football games and cheer on the Bears. Several booths flank the opposite side with a smattering of tables filling the space in between. Bathrooms are always clean, and Buck weatherized an outside porch to provide a separate nook for table games and pool. Buck prefers that you don't smoke, and I tend to prefer that as well. I used to hate the mornings after a youthful night spent barhopping, when my pillow would reek of the tobacco smoke still permeating my hair. It's nice that I can go back to the base and leave Buck's behind. The atmosphere of Buck's has a cloudy haze, which does give it that proper bar feel. Buck once showed me the fog machine hidden in the rafters. If he couldn't get it naturally, he was determined that his place would have the proper ambiance, no matter the means.

Sometimes Flint and I will go to Buck's and pretend that we have a normal relationship. For those three, four hours, we can sit and flirt, talk of everything and nothing, and brush knees underneath the table. Sometimes others come and Flint is drawn away into the back porch, challenged to a game of pool. Flint's pretty good. He doesn't always win, that honor belongs to Ace. Flint _is_ always a good sport though, amazingly enough, and is never stingy on picking up the tab.

That's where he was now, on the porch finishing up a game. Shipwreck had racked the balls and called Flint in to sub when his com-link went off, signaling Ship back to base. I'm no pool shark and usually hang in the main room, socializing or watching television. Buck recently installed a satellite dish and picks up most sporting events. Thus, I can get my occasional Red Sox fix and Flint can keep up with Jayhawks basketball. The room was empty tonight. Most were in the back placing bets or angling to be the next in line. The silence was nice until an eruption of cheers and I knew the game was almost over.

"So what are you going to tell him?"

The question brought me out of my thoughts and I jumped in my skin to see Tomax sliding into the booth seat across from me.

"What on earth are you doing here? They'll kill you."

"I highly doubt they'll kill me." He smirked. "Geneva convention and all." Tomax motioned over to Buck, ordering the special on tap. Buck returned, placing an overflowing frosty mug in front of Tomax, who promptly raised it to his lips, taking a long sip. "Ahhh, that hits the spot." He wiped the foam away from the corner of his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

Somehow I never pictured Tomax as a beer drinker. Whisky, port, brandy – yes. Beer? Not so much.

"I am human." Tomax said.

"Not really."

"Michelle and I went to many happy hours together."

"You did?"

"I think so. It's coming back to me slowly."

"Fine, you're human." I looked around, wondering how much time we had before almost every patron in the place drew their side arm against him. I leaned across the table. "Why are you here?"

"So that's how it's going to be. Straight to business." He held up his hand, stopping me in mid-thought. "This is all under your control. You wanted me here. You need to talk."

"What?"

"Have you told him yet?"

"Told who what?"

"The dolt."

"The what? . . . whoa, hold on there a sec. You can't call him that."

"But you can't help thinking it can you?" Tomax flashed me an exaggerated wink. "It's stuck in your head. A much better word than some of the other things you used to think when you were mad at him."

I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing that this was all some sort of bad dream. I peeked; he was still there and waved a hand at me. No such luck then. "Ok, I'm stuck with you. What am I supposed to tell Flint?"

"Listen, you're not stuck with me." Tomax said. "I am but a fabrication of your mind. You clearly have things you need to discuss with our macho friend. Perhaps you want to run them by me. Maybe you want support. I don't know what's going on up there anymore." He tapped hard against my forehead.

"Oww." I swiped his hand away, rubbing at the sore spot.

Tomax eased himself back into the booth, stretching his arms up and bringing them down, rolling his shoulders into a more relaxed position. He took another chug of beer before addressing me again. "I told you, this is all you. I'm all in favor of cloak and dagger but look where it's gotten me. If you ask me, which clearly you are, I'd say it's time to come clean. And now's your chance." He nodded off in the distance and I turned around to see Flint emerge, several dollars poorer no doubt, from the back porch. Flint paused, scratching at that spot just underneath his beret, the place where his hair grew in sparsely, if at all. Scanning the crowd, his eyes lit up when they settled on me. He broke out into his lopsided grin. Damn I loved that dolt. And damn you Tomax for putting that in my head.

Although happy at seeing Flint, I cringed, waiting for him to recognize the other person taking up space in the booth. A minute passed while Flint walked up to the bar and placed his order. Good, I thought, he's controlling his temper – he's going to take care of this quietly, discretely. I knew Flint didn't hate Tomax; Tomax had saved me. I also knew that Flint didn't much like him either. He tolerated him. Tolerating was good in a situation like this.

I settled back into the seat and my mouth fell open. Tomax was gone. The little devil had snuck out. Tilting my head, I wouldn't put it past Tomax to hide out under the table. Nope, vacant. Where could he have gone? I didn't have much chance to ponder because Flint set his glass down and took up Tomax's former spot.

"How'd it go?" I said.

"Not too bad this time. Just one round of drinks."

"Well, better than the three of last time. We can drink to that." I held my glass up to him.

"And that we shall." Flint clinked his glass against mine, raising it to his lips. He didn't take a drink though. Instead, he held the glass suspended against his mouth, his lips barely showing over the top. I could sense his mind churning. It did that, churned like no other brain I'd ever witnessed. I swear you could almost hear the gears inside his head spin at light speed as he contemplated a million permeations all at once. He settled on one and put his glass down. "What's been going on with you Jaye?"

That was unexpected. How could he go from eyes all alit to this almost serious scowl? For that's what was on his face now, a scowl. The grin was gone.

"Ever since you came back from New York, you haven't been yourself. I can't put my finger on it. It's like you're guarded. I don't know. We sit here and you have this wall around you. I can't scale it. I want you back but I don't know what I've done, or if it was even me at all. What happened?"

His words were puzzling. I tried to think of how I had acted since New York. Nothing came to mind. Sure, Tomax stirred up some memories. I was careful though. Those memories would be pushed back down where they belonged. I was the Jaye now that I've always been. Come to think of it, I couldn't think of it. I couldn't recall anything after New York. Was I different? And I had my answer for Flint. "I haven't acted different, but I will, won't I? I will avoid you until it's out. I don't want to let it out Flint, even though there are things you should know. I should have told you. I was too afraid, ashamed really. I have to talk to you. But I'm going to hold off as long as possible because . . ." And that's where my trail of thinking stopped. The thought to follow that preposition was one I wasn't prepared to face. I had one last question for Flint. "I'm still in New York, aren't I? This is the conversation we will have."

The Flint in my head nodded once. There was a reticence to his eyes. I was projecting onto him.

No, I wasn't ready to complete the "because."

My eyes fluttered open and I blinked against the sunlight flooding my vision. It was as if I had been in a cave for days. My pupils couldn't contract fast enough. I rubbed at my eyes, constrained by the IV line poking out of one of them. Panic set in upon the thought of one word, hospital.

"Don't worry sweetheart, this ain't a looney bin."

I turned my head toward the voice and slowly made out the blurred outline of a furry face, which wasn't a furry face, but a mask. Beach Head. I tried to say his name but my throat was scratchy and unused. "Where?" was all I could manage to croak. My eyes still hadn't adjusted.

"Your pad. Nice setup you got here."

It made sense. Chuckles wouldn't have allowed the team to take me to a hospital – that would have been bad. On a good day, hospitals tend to freak me out. Chuckles is well aware of my aversion and has my proxy in these matters. Listening to Beach Head recount the story, there were a few choice words exchanged between Chuckles and J.T. – J.T. was by-the-book, and that meant a full cadre of doctors and nurses to make sure Tomax hadn't been up to something. Beach Head reluctantly sided with Chuckles, breaking the stale mate. Good thing too. I hate hospitals. Let me say it again, I truly hate hospitals. Always have, likely always will. Just the thought is enough to give me hives. I can assure you, when I go, it won't be in a hospital.

I wish I could trace back through my history to the defining event where my fear – and let's call a spade a spade, it is a fear – manifested. I don't think a fear of hospitals is something with which you are born. It has to be grown and nurtured. Early arrival onto this earth at MV Hospital notwithstanding, I can't find anything. One would assume that there's some recessed childhood trauma buried deep within my psyche. Psyche-Out has analyzed me this way and that way and every which way since Sunday to no avail. He's the first person I ever talked to about it, beside Flint. The great tragedies of my life have all taken place safely away from any hospital. Maybe that was the problem, where was a good doctor when you needed one? I find it's best not to dwell and to just accept.

Setting that aside, a hospital would have been very bad in this situation for I would have been exposed as a great fraud. Two, maybe three, tests tops and it would be revealed that there was nothing physically wrong with me. Try and explain that away. Instead, I'm glad Chuckles made J.T. drive me over to my apartment. My memory was starting to come back and I had a foggy recollection of that hurried drive.

"So you're back among the living?" I cringed at the sound of Beach Head dragging a chair closer to my bed. I just had the floors refinished last year. Beach Head mistook my pained expression for a physical ailment. "How you feeling?"

"Better. But you have to get this thing out of my arm, it's really uncomfortable." I held my arm up, motioning to the IV. Beach Head nodded and went to work. "Where is everyone?"

"Well, I'm here." He pulled the line out with a flourish and pressed a cotton ball to the site. He tapped my hand. "Here, hold this down. It's bleeding." He turned away from me and his voice dimmed. "Chuckles accompanied the flash drive back to base. I would have preferred that." He turned back toward me with some medical tape in hand. "Instead I get to babysit your sorry six."

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"You'll take that back darling after you see the on-demand movie bill I managed." Beach Head taped up my hand and sat back down. "J.T. flew back to Washington. He wants a word with you. Seems something funny happened to his setup and relay. He managed to get nothing but static. No record of your little conversation with our friend Tomax. I told him you might have a few answers. Seems he didn't disagree."

I shrugged; he had me there. "So what happens next?" I said.

"Well darling, that depends on you. That twin sent some quack over to check you out. As you can imagine, there was some demand for a second opinion." Beach Head smiled at the welcome he gave the doctor, a trim, bald-headed mustachioed man wearing wire-frame eyeglasses so fine that if you didn't look him straight on, the hallway lighting made it appear that the good doctor was wearing a monocle. Beach Head wasn't going to play Tomax's game. "Quack told us you picked up some food bug and needed a day or two of rest to let it run its course."

I had faint recollection of said doctor locking me behind a door under the guise of keeping a lady's privacy. He didn't do much other than hook up the IV and give me something for the headache and nausea. That was all I remembered. "How long ago was that?" I prepared myself for another Rip Van Winkle moment.

"Last night. Quack also gave you a little something to help you sleep through the night." Beach Head pulled his com-link out. "It's about 11:30, decent enough."

I was comforted at that. I had a fear that it would be more like a few days. That was a horrible feeling – waking up that one time in fog after Christmas and New Year's Eve had passed. It took much longer to acclimate and adjust back to life than I estimated. The doctors back in Germany said it would take time, perhaps months; I didn't believe them. In addition to the issues of muscle atrophy and stomach sensitivity, it was remembering the day-to-day stuff and the constant frustration at always feeling off – of being neither here nor there. What had happened in the caves threw me for a loop to say the least. And the nightmares. Reluctantly I admitted that I needed help. Psyche-Out was kind. He never teased me about my previous treatment of him. He just helped. Still, I was glad that was in the past and the past wasn't repeating.

"So we have another day then?" I tested the waters.

"You have another day. I'm not gonna sit around here while you play fairy princess in your castle."

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, grateful that I could. "Oh come on Beach. Think of all the fun we could have. You know, we never get to spend any quality time together. We'll rent movies and order Chinese and . . ."

"And paint each other's nails? Yeah, like I'm gonna eat anything you suggest. Darling, I get all the time I need with you on the course. I have no desire to extend my torture. Romeo promised me that once you were up, my mission was complete."

I pouted. "But think of all the fun you'll miss . . ."

Beach Head's com-link started buzzing and he shushed me as he answered. He nodded his head a few times, frowned, and said, "Ok, I'll pass you to her." He held the com-link out to me. "It's for you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Mainframe. I don't know what your girlfriend wants."

Rolling my eyes, I accepted the unit from Beach Head. "What's up?"

"Hey Jaye. Glad to hear you're doing better! Guys said you ate something nasty. You have to be a little more careful with what you eat."

"Thanks. I will. Anything else?" It was clear Mainframe didn't call me to discuss my dietary habits; he was stalling.

"Yeah, well, um, remember those names I monitor for you and Chuckles?"

That got my attention.

"Yeah?" Chuckles and I have made some questionable alliances in our line of work. Over the years Mainframe has maintained a database of individuals for the purpose of keeping tabs on their whereabouts. We feed the names to Mainframe and his computer program does the rest. We don't want to be the last to know when a source becomes compromised. I, however, have used the list for a bit more. Some of the names I've passed along to Mainframe haven't been what one would call "work-related." Mainframe is a smart guy; I'm sure he's figured it out. He is nothing if not discrete though and has never questioned my submissions. He feeds those names in with all the rest. Given Mainframe's hesitation, I had a feeling this call was about that other list.

"Well, some of your names pinged this morning." Mainframe said.

"Oh?" I straightened up, planting both feet on the ground. Steady. This was about my other list.

"Yeah, um, wait, where . . . hold on." I could hear Mainframe typing away on his keyboard. "Um, Michael. Looks like a Michael Flannery. He was the first."

"First what?" I gulped, trying to remain calm. My hand trembled slightly.

"Well, I'm sorry Jaye."

"Mainframe, you have to tell me. Why are you sorry?"

"Man, he was murdered."

"Murdered? When? How?"

"Sometime in the early morning, well, night for us. Shot in the head, point blank range. Authorities are calling it a retribution killing."

I closed my eyes. "You said he was the first. How many?"

"Seven in all."

"All on my list?"

"No, only two were on your list."

_Please don't let it be him, please don't let it be him_. I prayed to every god I knew, the fiery one of the Old Testament, the loving one of the New Testament, any god out there willing to listen, I plead, _please, not him_. "Who else?"

"A Dermot, Dermot Dunne."

My entreaties were ignored. I suddenly felt the weight of age pull on my shoulders. Dead? He couldn't be. Not now. Not like this. "Give me the details." Beach Head's head cocked at my hard edge and he grew a sudden interest in my half of the conversation.

"This one is still sketchy. He wasn't like the others. It wasn't execution style. He was found a few blocks away from his home, pockets cleaned out, shot. Looked like a robbery turned homicide. But because of the others, investigation is pending."

Each word dug a hole into a part of me I'd forgotten about. This went beyond a matter of the head or the heart. This hit everything – every nerve, every synapse, every fiber that intertwined to make my beating heart and my now-whirling brain.

"Jaye? You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry Mainframe. Thanks for letting me know. I'll see you soon."

"Sure, no problem. And Jaye, I'm sorry. Bye."

"Bye." I held the com-link out to Beach Head, not caring if he'd take it or let it fall to the floor. I'd almost rather watch the thing hit the ground, shattering into a million pieces.

"Jaye Bird?"

I looked up at Beach Head. Jaye Bird was a little nickname he came up with for me. It started off as an insult and gently morphed into a term of affection – not that kind of affection – no way, no how is there anything between Ranger Boy and me no matter how luscious his physique. It was his way of being a human. On the team, we all long for the moments when we can be human. I'd call him Wayne, and he'd call me Jaye Bird.

"Wayne?"

He held out his hands and I gripped them tight.

"I need to get back." I managed to sputter out before I lost it.

"Nothin' to it darling." He took me into his lap and let me cry.


	6. The Anchoress

**Chapter Six: The Anchoress**

Back at base, I retreated to my closet, the place where I could be alone and process my thoughts. My closet isn't really "standard-issue." Covert ops require a lot of props. Sure the wig you wore to impersonate a South Beach socialite can be repurposed to look like a Berkeley hippie, but not if you want to do it right. A Berkeley hippie isn't going to pay to have the seamless highlights that the socialite would. And the socialite would almost rather be dead then step out with split ends. If I am to draw as little attention as possible, it's a necessity that I have everything down to the last detail. Over the years I've learned that it's the one tiny detail you didn't think about that gives you away. If that means two wigs, then I will have two wigs – or ten, or twenty – a girl has to do it right. I just need a place to store them. Hawk, while appreciative of my tradecraft skills, wasn't going to give me my own suite of rooms. It makes the most sense. Scarlett bunks with Cover Girl, and Scarlett's bedroom becomes my base of operations. Hawk is old school military though. While he gets what I do, he doesn't really. To him, the world would be a better place if armies worked it out on a designated battlefield. The thought of a solider under his command using intrigue and subterfuge to gather intelligence would always make him slightly uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, he went with it because it worked. He looked to the SAS when making the pitch for our unit. Still, he couldn't ignore the part of him that preferred the pre-revolutionary war tactics of chessboard armies.

With Hawk not down on my request for bigger quarters, I had to make do. After taking some measurements, I had a plan. I just needed a co-conspirator. Flint and I placed separate orders to IKEA. One massive order would have drawn attention. Several orders spread out over two months between the two of us did not. Ok, I admit, Scarlett and Cover Girl, unbeknownst to them, ordered some shelves. Once we had the materials, Flint and I spent a weekend constructing a closet that isn't there. Messing around with your quarters is a big no-no, even on the Joe team. I'd have to apply for permission and obtain permits and do all sorts of things that give me a headache. It was simpler to do a discrete work around. When you walk into my bedroom you know something is off but you can't quite place your finger on it. It's the dimensions. My room is slightly shorter than all the others. Flint and I constructed a fake wall and built a closet behind it. In addition to holding all of my stuff, it's become the place I can hide. Flint has his sand dune and I have my hidden closet. In my hidden closet I can cry.

I also store those things I don't want anyone to see. In the far-right corner, underneath a stack of cropped sweaters and hot pants – Cobra attempts a lot of transactions in South Beach – sits a cardboard bankers box with the "Iron Mountain Storage" logo. It's a bit beat-up from its travels and is held together by reams of duct tape. It never draws any attention. It looks like any of the other boxes storing my gear. And if someone got curious and opened it, they'd think it was a box filled with make-up and hair products. Underneath that top layer, however, are the things I hold dear. A few pictures of my family – my mom, dad, and Jimmy family, not Grandmother Hart family – some postcards sent by my cousin William, special letters and cards, a poem Flint wrote for me, and my journals. From gawky middle school to awkward high school, my hopes and anxieties are all there. The first few notebooks contain endless pages devoted to my feelings of loneliness. After my family died, I was certain I would never relate to anyone ever again. Living with Grandmother Hart was a nightmare. She observed my every move with a critical eye. There was no love. Not from her. I allowed some people in during high school but, as one boyfriend remarked, I had the innate ability to turn my emotions off with nothing more than a thought. Good training Grandmother Hart would say.

In college, it was the distance I felt the most – I knew I could never connect with someone because I would never give up my soul. There was a piece I guarded. Grandmother Hart always instructed me to keep things close to my chest. I buried them so deep she should never have been concerned that someone could get to the Harts through any weakness on my part. It wasn't until just before graduate school that I stopped writing. I was going to be someone else. These notebooks full of my thoughts weren't me anymore.

Yet they are. No matter how hard I've tried, the anxieties of a little girl can't be ignored. She saw what would happen. She knew what I could become. She didn't want that, still, it happened. I wouldn't cry for Dermot. Not now. I willed my emotions away. I would detach and feel nothing.

And I still felt everything. My eyes burned with tears I had no right to shed. What was Dermot to me after all these years? What did it matter? He was my history, my past, and I left him there. I suppose we mourn the passing of a childhood friend we haven't seen because part of your childhood also dies. You are reminded of your mortality. It wasn't like that. I wasn't crying for the loss of some part of me, I was crying because of the acute loss of him. I was crying because of the things we were, not so much the things we would never be. I had filled that part up. Or I had tried. Aren't they one and the same?

Through the barrier of my clothes, I heard a muffled knock at the door. Flint. He'd be looking for me by now. He probably ran through all our favorite haunts coming up empty-handed. The junk room would be impassable, filled with the remnants of the lives left behind. The TV in the rec room would be dark. No one had time for it these days. Our days and nights were busy with ending this chapter. His knocks on my door would remain unanswered. Scarlett was out on a final mission. And I was a coward. I should talk to Flint. I needed to face him. He deserved as much. Still, I was scared. If I told him everything, all the things I'd never told him before, he'd leave, and I wouldn't blame him. I deserved it. If someone had lied to me for as long as I had to him, I don't know if I could forgive. Would I be too proud?

Besides, I didn't want to think of guilt and innocence. It made me feel more guilty. Dermot was dead. I couldn't change that. It was done. It didn't have to mean anything so personal. I hadn't thought about him in so long. Was that wrong? I think Tomax messed something up. He tripped my memories. Tomax stole but he also replaced. Things got jumbled. How on earth could I explain that to Flint? I couldn't tell Flint about what happened with Tomax in New York. Flint would probably blow a gasket and go after Tomax. He'd soon have time to do it. And Flint didn't know who Dermot was. I knew about Chloe, and Samantha, and Kristen before that. Flint shared his past with me. I didn't reciprocate in kind. I didn't think he could handle it. I thought I was protecting him. But I see now, I was protecting myself. I was afraid of what Flint would think of me, that he would see me in a different light – and not a good one. The joke was on me. Maybe I was crying about that. I couldn't protect myself anymore. The wonderful thing I had was gone. I ruined it.

That being the case I needed to get myself together. There would be plenty of time in my future to mourn the passing of it all. Once they decommissioned the Pit, there was some Hart property somewhere in the world where I could retreat and lick my wounds. People needed me now, especially Hawk. I rubbed damp eyes against my sleeve, pinched my cheeks, and pushed my hair off my face, shoving it under my baseball cap. I was trying to grow it out, which never seemed to work. I preferred it short, Flint was a sucker for it long. I suppose I would get my way soon enough. I didn't relish that thought.

I stepped out into the corridor and immediately had to duck as Gung-Ho almost clocked me on the head with a stack of 4X4s he was toting off to the loading dock. We were doing our own shutdown. See, the Jugglers were a cruel lot. It didn't take a full team of America's elite to scrap the Pit. The Jugglers knew that. In making us perform this task, the Jugglers hoisted their final indignity on us. Sure we were great and mighty when we had the backing of the Pentagon's budget. Take that away and we were like any other unit, expendable. Even more so because of what we had been, proud. Certainly too proud for that elusive cabal. Hawk instilled it in us. Hawk had gone to the mat for us. He had stared that group down more times than I can count. Now he would pay as he watched the soldiers under his command pack up the substance of his dreams. Hawk and General Flagg had dreamt this unit into being. They wanted a team that was beholden to no gender, skin color, or creed. Just the best of the best fighting for the country they loved. If it meant that I wore Army green and Scarlett wore, well, to be honest, I have no idea what she wore. I asked Flint once, figuring that his position in the chain of command might give him some inside knowledge. He didn't know. He admitted he liked it though and wouldn't mind if I went for a uniform change. I hit him with my pillow and that was the end of that. Regardless, Hawk didn't care what you wore. If a football jersey brought on your A-game, well then, wear your jersey.

Now Hawk's dream was at an end. Not that anyone would know it from looking at him. He projected exactly what we needed. He was the stoic and reassuring general. He would guide this ship back into port. He would bring us home. And that was a frightening realization as I walked down the hallway. What home could there be for me?

Hawk found a home for a lot of his soldiers in those first few weeks after the news dropped. He called in every favor he had – and even created a few new ones. As opportunities presented, Hawk grabbed at them with sticky hands. Some came with little warning. We lost Bazooka that way. One minute he was stationed in the motor pool helping to drain fuel from the tanks and then the next he was running down hallways, frantic to find Alpine to say that one rushed good-bye before boarding a transport plane to Georgia with a few of the other men.

Some were taking more time. Cover Girl was a precious commodity. Many wanted her, fewer deserved her. Hawk was being careful. One General Grantham in Kansas talked a good game, but Hawk couldn't ignore the rumors of his roving hands. He'd never do that to Courtney. He would find her a motor pool where her skills would be valued and the gents would maintain a respectful distance. If Clutch hadn't decided to retire, I think Hawk would have demanded that they go as a team. No one would lay a finger on her with Clutch bearing his teeth.

I presented my own problems. What to do with me? Where on earth could I hope to fit in? In those precious minutes between conference calls and deciphering Hawk's cuneiform scribbles, I contemplated on how I could remain behind in the Pit after it was over. The only life I felt was here. Without the Joes, without this place, I fear the dark places my soul could travel. In the Middle Ages there were women known as anchoresses. These were women who decided to retire from secular society to live a life of intense prayer and introspection. They took a vow of stability of place. After their vow, they retired to a cell or a small set of rooms, usually anchored to a church. They would watch as men bricked over the entrance. They would never leave. Not in the usual way. Sometimes death rites were said as the men applied mortar to the final bricks. For that's what they became, dead.

I didn't want to die. Yet I didn't want to live, not outside of here. Duke made an offer. He said it was up to me to tell Flint. He didn't have an offer for Flint. Not this time. Just me. Duke told me he knew of people who would appreciate my special skills as much as the Joes had. He pointed out that there wasn't another unit equipped to let me do my thing. There wasn't anther unit that could give me such flexibility. The offer was mine for the taking. It was tempting. What better way to get over my fears than to tackle them head on? The darkness couldn't get me if I willingly opened my arms to it. That would mean no more light. And no more Flint.

Despite my very overt efforts to ignore him, I yearned for the safety of his arms, to allow him to enfold me into a bear hug and to cry, to cry for everything. To be human, to have flesh touch flesh. But New York Flint was right. As soon as I was able, I built that wall between us. He couldn't see it. He sensed it though. The few moments he stole from me left him confused and wanting. The question was in his eye but never left his lips. He didn't know enough to ask. I wouldn't have told him. I had held so much back from him for so long. The foundation was laid the very first time I deflected a question from him years ago. This was the natural conclusion.

Day passed to night and night to day. Sleep became my obsession. I became obsessed with avoiding it. The moment my mind drifted into REM sleep, the dreams began. I watched as Dermot fell. I saw how a run-in with the wrong sort resulted in a bullet through his brain. I pictured the Dermot I had known, hands on his knees in the middle of a field, breathless. His shirt dirty with grass stains and smudges of dirt. His hair more disheveled than mine. Laughing. My mind couldn't reconcile the then with the image it had of the now, of him lying face down on a sidewalk, hair matted to his head, the pavement stained with his blood. Every time I slept, my dreams were shaded in black and red.

I took to sleeping in four-hour increments. It was all the pills allowed. Lifeline saw my struggle to keep pace with Hawk. The four pounds I had lost in two days were energy I needed. Lifeline didn't think twice when he gave me a script for sleeping pills. _Take them!_ his eyes ordered me as he pressed the bottle into my hand. I didn't fight him. He was right. Somewhere right now Lifeline has just experienced the biggest burst of unexpected happiness he has ever known. It took how long for me to finally admit he was right about something? It's a regular Joe miracle.

When you sleep in shifts, time drags out. You lose track of just how much has passed. Although it felt like weeks to me, only four days had passed from when Beach Head and I arrived back from New York. Those four days aged me more than a firefight with dwindling ammo and no ready evac ever could. I existed merely to be. I moved because I knew my body had to. The color leached from the world. When people think of a military base, I'm sure they picture it in a palette of fatigue green and that desert-beige color that only looks good on Cover Girl. The Pit was more vibrant than that. Sure, the walls were steel and the chairs were painted black, but step beyond the basics and your eyes opened up to the ingenuity and creativity of my teammates. Where there was darkness, they managed to inject a kaleidoscope of color. Scarlett had done an admirable job tidying up the make-shift dojo. You felt as if you had stepped into a Kyoto mountain retreat when you crossed its threshold. The essence of Spirit's Southwest covered the spare locker room he converted into a meditation center. He painted the walls in the muted pastels of the sunset and a rug woven by a Navajo friend covered the concrete slab floor. Lifeline hung pictures of various national parks in the medical wing. You didn't want to know what Shipwreck had pinned up all over his walls. Flint said it was a bit of a forbidden treat when he had to enter the sailor's domain. The suite I shared with Scarlett was awash in the colorful bindings of the books that filled up the shelves on our shared wall. Everywhere you looked, the Joes infused their essence into the base, bringing it to life. It wasn't standard, yet neither were we. As I wandered the halls, it was lost on me. I couldn't admit how far gone I was. The one person who could have helped was the person I couldn't bring myself to seek out.

During a break from shredding some of Hawk's more personal files, I popped down to see Mainframe. He left a message for me to find him. I entered the room and there he was in the middle of the floor sanitizing and shredding hard drives. We couldn't be too careful. Hawk suspected that the Jugglers would send in a recovery crew after the last person turned off the lights. Hawk gave strict orders for nothing to be left behind. Everything was to be decimated. Mainframe wanted to take the extra step of incinerating the drives but Beagle, our resident JAG, said something about having to conduct an environmental impact assessment and soliciting public comments before Beagle could file a finding of no significant impact in the Federal Register. Mainframe wasn't quite sure what it was all about. He just knew that soliciting public comments on his plan to burn plastic from a secret military base wasn't the best idea. He was sticking to shredding, although I kicked at a small pile gathering around Mainframe's feet.

"What's this?"

"Nothing." Mainframe didn't even look up.

"Going ahead with your burning plans?"

That got his attention. "That obvious?" he said.

"No. It's just that I know you."

He shrugged. "Beagle said we had to get a permit because of the amount of stuff I wanted to burn. Apparently anything over so many cubic feet requires a permit. He didn't say anything about having to get a permit for something slightly less."

I lowered myself to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees, staring at the mountain of information Mainframe had kept over the years.

"Don't worry," he nudged me, "your stuff is in the burn pile."

"Thanks."

"Come on, I have something for you." He stood up, reaching a hand down to help me up off the floor. I followed him over to one of the last working computers. Mainframe leaned over the keyboard, fingers flying. Images scrolled by on the monitor. My brain tried to register the individual pictures but it couldn't keep pace. I looked away from the blur.

"Ok, this is it." Mainframe drew my attention back. Up on screen was a report of some sort. I'd seen enough reports in my life to recognize one. This one was police. It had the fill in the blank look to it. It was written out in two languages, one language was English. I didn't recognize the other. It wasn't Spanish so I wasn't looking at an American report. It wasn't French, scratch Canada off the list. My eyes widened as my heart hitched. The other language was Irish. It was a Gardaí investigation report. I stopped there.

"I did some snooping around and was able to grab some of the reports generated by the recent murders." Mainframe would never admit to hacking. Thieves hacked, he "snooped." "Nothing out of the ordinary except for this Dermot fellow." Mainframe's fingers went back to work and the page zoomed in to the written observations of the responding officers. I squinted to make out the illegible handwriting. This was worse than Hawk's chicken scrawl. Bad penmanship aside, the responding guard was meticulous in his observations:

_Victim is facing north and blood splatter is located in an east-facing pattern. Inconsistent with body position. No signs of struggle. No burn marks or residue on hands. No knife marks. Fingernails clean. Exit wound consistent with close range shot. No shell casing near body. Forensics called. Perimeter set up. Victim's clothes clean. No marks on knees. Suspect he was familiar with assailant(s). Weather average. Visibility low, early morning fog. Victim's pockets empty. Wallet found a meter away from body. Contents empty XXX XXX XXXXX XXXXXX XXXX X XXXXX XXXXXX XXX XXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXX XXXXX XXXX XXXX XXXXXX XXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXX XXXX XXXXXX XXXX XXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX_

"Why is the report blacked out?" I said.

"That's what I wanted to know. I did some more snooping and found this." Another report flashed up on the monitor. It was created by the Special Detective Unit, the Irish police unit responsible for counter-terrorism and counter-espionage investigations in Ireland. Mainframe glanced back at me. "Seems this guy raised a few flags."

Mainframe was right. Dermot's death would make it across a few desks.

"But your sources usually do. That's not why I called you in. Look at this." Mainframe pointed toward the bottom of the screen. The report contradicted the initial Gardaí investigation. Dermot's wallet wasn't empty. There was a typed note hidden between the outer leather casing and the inner lining. Written in Irish, the translation was poor at best. "_Katie love of my heart I knew they know my honor gone he comes the debt is not paid save her_."

Mainframe glanced up at me. "Does that mean anything to you?"

I grabbed Mainframe, steadying myself. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to separate the past from the now. I didn't understand the entire message but bits spoke to me. Dermot knew. How and for how long I would never know. He knew and that was enough. And if he knew, then he was right, _he_ would know. I didn't understand the rest, perhaps that would come in time. I got the gist of it, which is probably all Dermot wanted. I'm sure he would have preferred that I had the Irish version. Things get lost in translation. That didn't seem to be an option considering who was in possession of Dermot's note. I rubbed at my eyes. The time to mourn was gone. My life, this life was gone. The past had come back. I had no choice but to follow.

"Jaye, one more thing. They haven't buried him yet."

"Sorry?"

"Well, with the investigation and the autopsy and whatever other alarms Dermot set off, his body's been in custody with the SDU. They're releasing it tomorrow. Funeral should follow that. You have time."

I grasped Mainframe's upheld hand, squeezing it before letting go. "Thank you."

He squeezed back and dropped his hand while lowering his shoulder, taking care so that I could see every keystroke he took to delete the information he showed me. With a flick of the wrist, he popped the drive out, smashing it between his hands before tossing it on his burn pile. "Go on, get out of here. I didn't see you today if he asks."

Turning away, I swallowed, the tightness growing in my chest. As I hurried back to the barracks the feeling of unease grew until my stomach was a mass of wriggling worms. I wished I could go back and change it. I wished I could just come out and tell Flint from the beginning what happened. I was foolish to think I could hide it from him. My dumb pride.

I sat down in front of my computer and began to type. It didn't feel right. This wasn't fair. He deserved the news from me, from my hand. I pulled a piece of paper from the drawer. Lifting the pen, my tears intermingled with the thoughts I jotted on the page. The sorrow of my mind interjected with the words of my brain. It wasn't enough yet it would have to be. This was the way the world ends, with a sigh.

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><p>A huge thanks to mossley and bugsymutt for helping me get past the logjam and beta'ing this chapter. All mistakes are mine, all inspiration theirs.<p> 


	7. Lie Without a Liar

**Chapter Seven: Lie Without a Liar**

The pain came in waves, emotional currents pushing me toward an unknown shore. With each lull I tried to convince myself that it was the last, for I had nothing left to give. And then a thought, a simple memory, would trigger the next onslaught of tears. I cried until I was left with hiccups and a runny nose. I pulled myself together until it started again. It was the past and the future come together in the present. My past ruined my present and forever changed my future. As I leaned back against my bed I felt so melodramatic. What did I expect? My present circumstances were entirely my own doing. I ran when I should have stayed. And now I would make things right. I felt like staying, yet I would run.

With that resolve, I began the task of cleaning up this life. But as I scurried around my room, tossing articles of clothing into boxes and bags, sticking on labels for their final destination, something would remind me of Dermot. I hadn't thought of him in so long. I purposefully banished him from my thoughts. My feelings for Flint were undeniable. Those feelings didn't blunt the pain of Dermot's death. Dermot was my first love, my first real love. He made up a part of me. I couldn't deny it. I couldn't share it because no one here knew. There was no one with whom I could share my sorrow. I grieved alone.

I stroked loving fingers across a stained and faded jersey from the annual Army vs. Navy Joe flag football game. It wasn't the games that came to mind, it was Dermot. He liked American football. He didn't understand it all that much but the flash and pageantry of the Sunday games appealed to him. He'd stay up until the wee hours of the morning to catch a glimpse of his adopted team, the Chicago Bears. Some of his cousins lived in Chicago and mailed him t-shirts when the thought crossed their mind. Dermot wore those t-shirts into the ground. I pressed the flag football jersey against my closed eyes, willing the pain below, trying to wrestle control back from my wandering mind. _Stay on task! _I chided myself.

I tossed the jersey into a box marked for Whitinsville, MA. The majority of my stuff was headed for a storage locker there –plentiful space and no one cared. I'd done what I could to keep my current life secret. I wasn't like most Harts. With the exception of a few pictures taken at obligatory society events, I lived my life on the periphery. I had too. Your life as a covert operative is pretty much over the day someone recognizes you. That's why Dermot's note scared me. Dermot's death wasn't an accident, not with that message. They knew. They found him and they made the connection to me. As careful as I've been, you can never be careful enough. Although Dermot lived his life in the open, he did so with the knowledge he was safe. I was under no such assumption. I wasn't safe. No one close to me was safe. Still, I wasn't ready to face it. I wasn't ready to give it a name. I needed to regroup and figure out my next move. I couldn't do that here. So I did what I needed to do.

Or did I? As I came to grips with the realization of what I'd done, the panic set in. Where would I find the strength to pull it off? For I wanted nothing more at that moment then to give in and be vulnerable. When I'm sick, sometimes I like a little pity. Flint humors me and rather than say, _buck up soldier, you'll be fine in no time_, he'll comment on how awful I look or baby me a bit by sneaking me some of Roadblock's special chicken soup. Scarlett shakes her head. She's completely of the _Buck Up Soldier_ _School_ and doesn't understand the comfort derived from a good dose of overdone sympathy. Yes, my world's not falling around my feet. That fact is not lost on me. I think I simply crave the coddling I didn't get. As a Hart, we show the world only our best side. Grandmother Hart always said that no matter how awful you feel on the inside, no one wants to see that. Pinch your cheeks and put on some lipstick. Never show your weakness.

That philosophy serves me well in my profession but it can put me at a distance with my friends. It makes it hard to have friends, truly deep, real friends. I think friends need to know you're vulnerable. No one wants to friend a robot. I've let some people in over the years, which makes my plans all the more difficult. Because it wasn't just Dermot's passing I mourned, it was the passing of all of this, the Joes, and Flint. _He comes_. He was coming for me. And there was no one I could tell because I lived a lie. I never let anyone in. I even kept Flint at a distance, for his protection, for my fear of rejection. And now I was alone.

I had to go. My time had run. I wiped at my eyes, trying to think positive. It was hard looking around my boxed-in world. In a few hours I transformed my room into a seven-year-old's dream fort. Boxes stacked five feet high created precarious tunnels ready for imminent collapse. The sum of my life as a Joe boxed away. That thought lead to another round of tears. Time boxed and forgotten. Sinking to the ground I rode the feelings out. Fighting it didn't help. It made it worse in a way. I worked on breathing and being. The clock ticked. My hands shook with nervous agitation.

Getting back on my feet, I taped up the next box, keeping my hands busy. The crunch of the ripping packing tape masked his footsteps. I glanced up, screaming at the stranger in my room.

"Hey, it's me." Flint held his hands out turning them palms up, reassuring me it was just him.

I think he wanted me to take his hands, to offer reassurance in return. I didn't have the ability. I planned on being gone before he found me. Plan being the operative word. I knew if Flint found me before I left, he would talk. If he talked – if he said the right words – I might lose my resolve. I couldn't. I needed to push those feelings aside. He couldn't know. I needed him safe. And, I needed to be what he saw. I needed to be that person. If I stayed, she would be lost.

We stood in silence until he broke first. "You're leaving." He looked around the room, taking it in. While I may have written my intentions, I don't think it sunk in until he stood in my room and saw firsthand. "You're really leaving."

"We have to leave sometime."

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I did."

"The letter?" His face crinkled up in disgust. He shifted his feet. "The letter. That was it?"

I shrugged, picking at some tape stuck on the edge of a box. The air felt heavy and uncomfortable. I wanted to be anywhere but there, facing him. Didn't he understand I tried to avoid this? There were questions he would ask that I couldn't answer. I wrote it down so he'd have that. He would know I loved him. The tape wouldn't budge.

"Stop that." He grabbed my hand, forcing me to look up into his eyes. "So I have this clear," he fished my letter out of his pocket, "this was your good-bye."

"No. No it wasn't."

"Then what was it?"

I wrestled my hand away. "It was . . . it's just . . . there's something that happened. Something I can't share—"

"What do you mean you can't share?"

"I can't tell you. It's for your own good, your protection. I . . ."

"My protection? Wait, what kind of excuse is that? Ali, you've got me really worried here. You need to tell me what's going on."

"I can't."

"You can't or you won't?"

"I can't and I won't. Flint, I'm not the person you thought. I did some things that I'm not proud of. Some bad things. I have to make it right. But it's not safe for you. You have to stay here." Already I was telling him too much. I could see it on his face. He wanted to protect me.

"Do you think I'm going to stand aside and let you go now? Ali, it doesn't work that way. Let me help you. I don't care what you've done on your missions. You know my hands aren't exactly clean. If someone's after you, we need to tell Hawk. We need to—"

"It's not like that. It's not a mission. It was before. It's my past. And you can't be a part of this, you just can't. I need to go away for a little while. Not forever. Just for a while. There's nothing you can do. Please, you just need to understand. You just need to—"

"What, let you walk off? Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"Flint, please. You're making this hard."

His face exploded with rage. "I'm making this hard? Alison, you broke up with me in a freaking letter."

"Flint, it's not like that." I sensed his skin crawling. He wanted to pace but there was no room. He was a caged animal brought to frenzy. And it was all because of me. I rubbed my hands down my face. This isn't what I wanted. I just wanted to go and for him to accept. It was wrong but I was counting on his understanding of our work to let me go. I purposely lead him to that conclusion. By the time he figured it out, I'd have a huge head start on him. And when he couldn't find me, I wanted him to accept it and be fine because then I would be fine. Because then, in the end, I would still have this, what we were. No awkward confrontation to mar the memories of our time together. I would keep him safe in my head. There were so many dangers in the world. Flint and I saw so much together. But Flint wasn't prepared for this. He was a boy scout; I don't care what Tomax said. Flint could never forgive me. I wasn't sticking around for that.

"Trust me. This is for the best." That was the biggest lie. It wasn't for the best. Things weren't fine. They could never be. Not with how far we had come. He was right. I trivialized our relationship by writing that stupid letter. I may not have meant it that way, but how else could he take it? When you tell someone you need to go and he has to stay, that's a pretty big signal you don't care. I did care and I didn't want it to be over. I only wanted what was best. And I told him in a letter. I bit at my lower lip as it started to tremble. I thought I had no more left to cry. I was wrong.

"Oh Alison." His face softened. I saw the depth of his compassion as he reached out to me. "Ali, what's going on? If there's something bad I'm not staying on the sidelines. I can handle myself. We'll deal with it. I don't care about your past."

I backed away from him. "No!"

"Ali, come on. Don't do this."

"Dash, please. You have to go. Just . . . just go." The tears flowed down my cheeks.

"No. I'm not."

"God Dash, please . . ." Somehow his understanding made things worse. I needed him to be upset, angry, furious even.

Flint tried to take me into his arms. I pushed him away, feeling guilty, dirty. What a mess I created. "I just need some time."

"Time?" His confusion returned.

For a brief moment, I thought of telling him. Everything I withheld he deserved to know. As I looked at him, I faltered. I loved him. I would protect him even if he didn't want it. And god help me, I would protect myself. "Time. Just some time. Alone. Once I take care of things, then I'll be back. It's not forever."

"No."

"No?"

"No. You don't tell me like this in a letter. We talk. We figure this out, together."

"But Flint—"

"You have to understand Alison. When the world is headed south, all I want is it to be you and me. As long as I have that, the rest doesn't matter. Whatever happens, I know I have you. I thought we were honest with each other. I know there are some things you've done you can't tell me. I don't ask. But we were still a team. So when you do this," he held out the letter, his hand shaking under the weight of his anger, "how am I supposed to take it? We were going to be married Alison. I asked you and you said yes. That means something. And now all I get is a piece of paper? Not even the courtesy of a 'Hey Dash, something's bothering me. Can we talk?' It doesn't work that way. Either it's us together or nothing at all."

"It's not like that." A new fear grew in my chest.

"Oh, it is like that."

"Dash. I . . ." And I couldn't complete the sentence. I couldn't say what needed to be said, what he needed to hear to save us.

He exhaled and his shoulders slumped. Resignation. I could see it in the way he set his jaw and regulated his breathing. His hand settled at his side. "I know you're going to do what you're going to do. You don't care about—"

"Dash, please—"

He shook his head, silencing me. "No. It's like that. We all have choices. You have a choice. When you decide, let me know. Until then," he paused, crumbling my letter in his fist, dropping it at my feet, "it won't be like this."

Suddenly I was alone in a way I never imagined. This went beyond how I felt after I lost my mom and dad. Even Jimmy. Jimmy, my best friend and big brother, the person who loved me when I felt slighted by some punishment my parents doled out, the kid who taught me how to dribble a basketball. When I lost them, my little world grew so much smaller. Those were the emotions of a child trying to navigate a reality most children never face. The years spent with Grandmother Hart – they prepared me for nothing. This overwhelming sense of finality had no companion. Flint's presence, there even when he physically was not, was ripped away. I felt cold and sick.

Choices. My whole life has been plagued by choices. The ones I made, the ones others made for me. The choices in life keep stacking up and I will never catch up. The choices that led me here, to the one choice I wanted to make – to fall straight into his arms and allow his spirit to engulf me. The world was better when it was us. Sure we disagreed. He could be a dolt but I could be so stubborn and proud. And my pride won't let me make that one choice. I don't have a choice at all. All my choices were made the moment I gave him a letter telling him I loved him but had to go. It was like that. There was only one choice I could make. There was only one thing left I could do to make him safe. It killed me, but he would be safe.

I grabbed the ring finger of my left hand, twisting at the ring encircling it. The ring wouldn't budge. I pulled until it popped free, my hand recoiling against the sudden loss. I didn't want to do this. I had to do it. I held it out to him. Not as a peace offering, but as a conclusion. It was the end.

He stood, arms wrapped around his chest, making no move to accept it from me. His eyes were cold and hard. I could feel his anger, his disgust. In that moment, he hated me. How could he not? I hated me. It was a coward move. I still loved him. I still needed him . . . I couldn't face him.

My head fell as I set the ring down on the box closest to him. The diamond twinkled for a moment catching the overhead light. The sparkle teased and taunted me, almost as if it was laughing at me and my stupid choices. I closed my eyes. I couldn't look at Flint's anymore.

I left the room, afraid to look back. I imagined him standing there, a stoic sentry guarding what used to be. Guarding what I had left. Our love, the one thing I treasured above all else, more than my pride, more than myself, was gone.

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><p>Thanks again to mossley and bugsymutt for reviewing!<p> 


	8. The First Time

**Chapter 8: The First Time**

I rushed through the Pit trying to avoid teammates and their conversations. I waved hello from afar, never stopping. Any closer and they'd see right through me. They'd know what I'd done. I needed to get to Hawk to follow-up on the other letter I sent.

On level three I ducked into the women's bathroom. Level three was the domain of men, filled with spare parts and the circuitry that created the Pit's beating heart. It was a pretty safe bet that the women's bathroom on this floor was empty. When I couldn't make it to my room, this was one of the first places I'd head. It rarely disappointed.

Leaning against the cool tile walls, I sunk to the floor in a daze. My hand felt empty without Flint's ring. I never wore it for missions and barely around the base. Flint and I tried to be discrete. It was no secret, still, Flint promised Hawk we'd keep things under wraps as much as we could, and we did. I wore the ring when Flint and I were alone. I know he wanted me to wear it more. He didn't press the issue. I once wore it on a night out with the girls. I figured off-duty wear wasn't going to offend. Scarlett and Cover Girl begged me to leave it at home. They argued it was going to cramp our style. It had the unintended exact opposite effect. Men bought us drinks all night long. We were the queens of the dance floor. Reluctantly, I told Flint. I thought he'd get a little jealous. Nope, he surprised me too. He strutted like a peacock all the next day. He dug the affirmation I suppose. Since I didn't wear it that much I couldn't explain why its absence bothered me now. It wasn't the first time I've given back a ring, merely the second. God please don't let there be a third.

* * *

><p>Thaddeus Latham Phillips, III, son of Thaddeus Latham Phillips, Jr., in turn son of Thaddeus Latham Phillips, Sr., was destined for great things. The first boy of six, his birthright was the key to the kingdom. The Phillips rival the Harts in almost everything. Where the Harts donate their money, the Phillips also donate their time. If the Harts roll up their sleeves, the Phillips tear off their shirts. It's a not-always-so-friendly rivalry as old as Boston itself. The families dance around each other, never intermixing. Fate conspired against it.<p>

As the story goes, my great, great aunt Constance was betrothed to Landon William Thompson Phillips when she died of consumption, quite sudden. Her sister Anne then picked up the reins. Anne maintained the forward progress until two weeks before the wedding when a hunter accidentally shot her while she was taking a stroll in the woods near her family's estate. The hunter was distraught, having mistaken the great colorful feathers in Anne's hat for some sort of exotic bird. A fair mistake. The next daughter in line, Dororthy, stepped up to the plate. On her way to the dress shop to pick up Anne's wedding dress, now hers, and with only a day to go before her wedding, a runaway horse struck Dorothy, the horse's hooves ensuring a quick death.

With Dorothy's demise, the Harts were reluctant to promise up another daughter to Mr. Landon Phillips. They soon married off the one remaining daughter, Eliza, to William Bartholomew Holbeck, allegedly descended from the Mayflower Holbecks. Bart, as he was known, put great effort into the marriage. Twenty years Eliza Hart's senior, he no doubt thanked his lucky stars every night he crawled into bed to find her waiting. Family lore states they were happy and the Holbecks have done well in this world.

For a period of time, the Phillips and Harts didn't attempt another match. The ages of eligible children didn't correspond – too old or too young. The Harts married into other prominent East Coast families to appease certain business interests. The Phillips, looking to expand their empire westward, set their sights on the Stetsons and the Winchesters. I personally think the deaths of Constance, Anne, and Dorothy weighed heavily on the family's collective psyche. Lose one girl, a shame; lose three, now that's a tragedy. Families like to avoid tragedies. Enter me.

I was the right Hart at the right time. Thaddeus, or Thad, was four years older than me. Our grandmothers conspired from the day of my birth to match us together. The time was ripe for a Hart-Phillips union. Living under the same roof as Grandmother Hart was a veritable death sentence to any relationship I attempted with a boy not named Thaddeus Phillips. I liked Thad, I just didn't see what all the fuss was about. Jimmy adored Thad and the two were often found up to some sort of mischief. I tried to get in on their games, not always successfully. After Jimmy was gone, Thad was the closest living reminder I had to my lost brother. Thad became my surrogate brother. That being the case, I couldn't see why Grandmother Hart had a conniption every time he spoke to another girl.

One day Grandmother Hart set me down for "the talk." My talk differed from the average talk a parent gave a teenaged daughter. The thought of the birds and the bees brought a blush to Grandmother Hart's cheek. She'd leave that talk for my tutor. Her talk was of the family and my duty to marry Thad. The Harts and the Phillips depended on us to make the families stronger. I think at that point I didn't care what happened to me. Grandmother Hart used me as a pawn in her game. Fine. I was ignorant of the power I held. That came later. Suffice to say, if I had to marry Thad, there were worst things.

Thad was a product of a similar talk and began to pursue me in earnest. During my junior year at Bryn Mawr, Thad flew down to Philadelphia where I met him for a nice dinner. After drinks, we walked around Rittenhouse Square before he proposed, down on one knee. I acted surprised. We kissed and a few strangers took the time to wish us well. Although a picture perfect proposal, it wasn't my proposal, not the way I wanted. There was a sense of the author's hand in it. The proposal wasn't the natural progression of the story, it was forced. Thad appeared happy. If Thad was happy, so was I. I could marry him for Jimmy. Jimmy would be happy.

That night Thad checked us into the Ritz. I know, scandalous. But back then it _was_ a saucy move on my part. While the heir to the Ocean Spray fortune cavorted up and down the coast, I stuck close to home. Little did the world know I was a virgin. Grandmother Hart was right about one thing. She said sex gave a person power – over you. Enough people controlled my life. I felt powerless as it was. I wasn't going to compound the situation. Once I became Thad's fiancé, I assumed he'd want that, as was his right. Perhaps sex would instill those feelings I didn't have.

Our make-out session moved from the balcony, to the living room, to the bedroom. My mind wandered all over the map. I thought of reports to research and what my roommate might say if she knew what I was doing right that minute. She'd demand all the details. What I couldn't make myself do was fall for Thad in that way. Who wouldn't want Thad? He was handsome and charming. A bit staid and safe. A life would Thad would be comfortable, just not very exciting. Thad planned his day down to 15 minute intervals. I'd always be on time. At least I'd have that going for me.

Once we made it to the bed and he undid the buttons on the back of my dress, I peeked. Up until that moment, when we kissed, I kept my eyes closed trying to maintain the mystery. I jumped because Thad opened his eyes too. Our faces were so close together that his eyes blurred until he was a mythological creature gazing at me with one eye. That one eye was curious, not aroused. When I kissed the love of my life, I wanted that person invested in me, not looking at me with a fascinated detachment. I wanted us to be all in.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. A headache brewed beneath. It wasn't there. The one thing everyone else wanted, wasn't there. Still, maybe I read him wrong. If he wanted this, a passionless life was worth it to avoid Grandmother Hart's wrath. I looked back at Thad, willing him to do something, say anything, give me a sign.

"Alison, listen, I . . ." He bit his lip, twisting his hands together, his words trailing off into the air.

"Thad, it's ok." Answer given. He wasn't feeling it either. "I'm, well . . . it's . . . it's not there."

Relief washed over his face and he grasped my hands in his. "How do we get out of this one?"

I tried to think what Jimmy would do. He'd say something smart, diffuse the tension, and the whole world would laugh. I didn't have that ability, neither did Thad.

Thad lay back on the bed, hands folded over his stomach. "I keep trying to think what Jimmy would do."

I lay back and joined Thad in his deliberations. "Well, I think the first thing he'd do is pop you one for touching his sister."

"Heh, yeah, you're right on that. Then he'd say something clever and I'd forget he'd even hit me."

"And I'd run to Mary, crying about the whole thing."

I glanced at Thad. He smiled at the mention of Mary, my best friend from Boston. We all spent our summers together. Thad kept a picture of the three of us on his dresser back at his apartment. I kind of expected that she'd be here helping out with the proposal. She pitied us and our arranged marriage as she called it. She joked a lot about Thad and my relationship. A little too much at times. It hit me. There was someone Thad loved, someone he would kiss with his eyes closed. Mary could live in Thad's structured world and be happy. I knew what I did next put me on Grandmother Hart's hit list forever. I turned to Thad. "It's Mary. Go on, go be with her. I don't mind." I twisted the ring off my finger and handed it back. "Give this to her."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Thad hightailed it out of there. I stayed. He paid for the room for the whole weekend. I couldn't let it go to waste. I got some of the best sleep of my life those two nights. The bed was a cloud and the windows had those super-darkening curtains. I ordered room service for every meal and had a massage in the room. Thad paid the bill.

That summer Thad and Mary, well, married. I stood at the front of the church looking like a plumped flamingo covered head to toe in magenta silk and tulle. No one said people had taste back then. Mary was resplendent in her Gone With the Wind poufy white lace dress embroidered with a million sparkling crystals. She hadn't stopped crying since her father walked her down the aisle to the tinny church organ rattling through Canon in D. I stole a glance at Thad. His eyes focused solely on Mary. His body leaned toward her as though drawn by an invisible force. During the ceremony I caught his eye once. _Thank you_ he mouthed. I winked back. Screw you Grandmother Hart.

But Katherine Hart had choice words for me at the reception. "You threw your chance away. Imbecile."

"Don't hold your feelings in grandmother; it's not good for your health." I said.

"Don't get snippy with me. You know exactly what you did."

"I do." My gaze wandered around the room, settling on the happy couple stumbling about the dance floor, no Fred and Ginger. "I watched my two dearest friends get married."

"And you squandered your chances."

"You mean I squandered your chances. Now Violet's granddaughter reined in the Phillips fortune. So sad for you."

Katherine met me head-on, her eyes locked on mine, never wavering. It was on.

_Game_.

"Your parents would be so disappointed in how you've turned out. Who's going to want to be with you? Night at the Ritz? Damaged goods they'll all say." With a upstretched eyebrow, Katherine's mouth raised at the corners in a thin line of satisfaction.

_Set_.

"It should have been you, not Jimmy."

_And match_.

Grandmother Hart knew how to cut to the chase. I curled up my fists, freshly manicured nails begging to be unleashed. Oh how I longed to draw them straight across her face, little red lines cutting through her perfect make-up.

Katherine let out a sigh of boredom. "This gets too easy my dear. Just see that you don't embarrass yourself the rest of the evening."

As she paraded away, head held aloft, I stewed. "Ugh!" I punched a fist against my side, wishing it was something else. I jumped as a hand rested on my shoulder.

"Listen little Ali, don't let Cruella get to you. So you didn't marry your cousin, big deal."

I elbowed William, my favorite cousin and the one closest in age to me. He was also the closest looking. If you could imagine me as a 6-foot male with way less chest action and more shoulder, straighter hair and nose, and an Adam's apple, you'd have William. "Eww, gross. He's not my cousin."

"No, you're right. Our man over there looks like he could be our uncle." William jabbed his thumb toward Thad. "You kissed that right? You completely kissed your uncle."

"William!"

"Ali, look at him. He's a splitting image of us right down to this funky thing we've all got going on with our hair." William flicked the one section of hair in the back of my head that never curled the right way. "The way the Harts and the Phillips have been getting it on the side, dude could be our uncle. I bet old man Hart sired that boy. Thad's more a Hart then he'll ever know."

I shrugged. He had a point. Rumors swirled around about Grandfather's transgressions.

"Your kids would have been born with three eyes and webbed feet." William grabbed my hand. "Come on, next dance's on me."

"What about Martha?"

He rolled his eyes while tipping back a few imaginary drinks. "She's a dud. You're way more fun. Let's give Grandmother something to really talk about." He pulled me out onto the dance floor, leading us into the soft, flowing waltz. As we matched the pace of the music, I watched his eyes scan the crowd for grandmother. As much as she despised me, I suspect she treated him worse. At least she acknowledged my presence. To Grandmother Hart, William was an inconvenience at best. The opposite of love is supposed to be hate, but I don't think so. The true opposite is indifference. She felt nothing for him. At least I knew she hated me.

He spun me at the corner and we continued the pace. "Let's face it coz, for whatever reason, we're the rejects. She may decide that the best thing to do is tie up loose ends and rejoin the family branches. F- this uniting the clans shit. Hart and Phillips? No way. Hart and Hart is more her style." William held my hands up, puckering his mouth in an imitation of Katherine. "Let's make the clan stronger from within. The uniting of Alison and William may actually produce a decent Hart." He laughed. "For me, there are worst fates. But you Ali, you're more."

"William, don't say that."

"Nah, it's true. I know where I'm headed. If the women don't get to me, the drinking certainly will." He tried to shrug it off as if it was nothing. It was something. I was always so focused on my hurt that I failed to notice his. His pain was on full view in his eyes. Usually they crinkled with laughter and life. One never thought of William as anything but the comedic relief. He was his father and yet he wasn't. _He_ was more. _He_ was a person deserving of a chance. How horrible to be boxed in and your life decided. I knew how he felt.

"William." I reached up, cradling his chin in my hand. "Screw her. You are so much more. Screw them all if they can't see it." I paused, stumbling over my next thoughts. "And . . ." _Just out with it already_. "Screw Martha. You can do so much better. Don't tie yourself to her because you think you have to. You deserve a wonderful girl who loves you for you and not because you'll make her a Hart. Don't settle. I, I never liked her."

William stopped our dance, looking down at me in stunned silence. _Damn_, _double damn_. I went too far on that last one. I couldn't stop myself. It was all true. Martha didn't care about William and William was too broken to care about that. I pulled my hand away and covered my mouth, cringing inside. The other dancers continued around us, oblivious.

"Oh god William. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I . . . I mean, I did . . . no . . . I . . ."

The music reached its peak and the women floated to the sides of the men, curtsying in the old-fashioned way. The dancers faded into the background. It was just William and I standing there. His hand was still placed upon my waist, ready to lead me around the wooden floor. I bit at my lip, I stepped where I shouldn't. His hand remained though. He didn't pull away. "William, I–"

"Alison, shut up." He shook his head once, silencing my incoherent apology. "Thank you." A big grin spread across his face, his eyes sparkled with happiness, and more. He blinked a few times. He wouldn't lose it, not tonight. Tonight William became more.

The band leader called out, "And now something to get you moving." A trumpet pierced the air with the opening melody of "In the Mood."

William held out his hand. "One more for the road?" I reached across the space, allowing his fingers to intertwine with mine. With a wink, he spun me out to the side, twirled me once, and pulled me back, his hand settling easily against my waist, guiding me into the next move. I rested my hand on his shoulder; we always had perfect form. Turning us into the pulsating sea of dancers, William relaxed, buoyed by the music. "Coz, I think we're going to be all right."

* * *

><p>And we were for a time. William ditched Martha and I moved out into my own apartment before leaving for grad school. William and his dad, Uncle Robert, made sure I could.<p>

And now I messed it all up again. I stood up and walked over to the sinks, blasting the cold water. Dipping my head under the spray, the water shocked, and then revived me. Time to face Hawk.


End file.
